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THE S. & K. DRAMATIC SERIES 



THE TRUTH ABOUT THE THEATRE. 

Anonymous. Net $1.00. 

FOUR PLAYS OF THE FREE THEATRE. 

Authorized Translation by Barrett H. Clark. 
Preface by Brieux of the French Academy. 

"The Fossils," a play in four acts, by Frangois 
de Curel. 

"The Serenade," a Bourgeois study in three 
acts, by Jean Jullien. 

"Frangoise' Luck," a comedy in one act, by 
Georges de Porto-Riche. 

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By Barrett H. Clark. Net $1.50. 

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By Walter Prichard Eaton. Net $2.00, 

THE ANTIGONE OF SOPHOCLES. 

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GEORGE BERNARD SHAW: HIS LIFE AND 
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By Archibald Henderson, M.A., Ph.D. Net 
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SHORT PLAYS. 

By Mary MacMillan. Net $1.50. 

THE GIFT— A POETIC DRAMA. 

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LUCKY PEHR. 

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STEWART & KIDD COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, 
CINCINNATI. 



More Short Plays 



BY 

Mary MacMillan 

Author of "Short Plays" 




CINCINNATI 
STEWART ^ KIDD COMPANY 

1917 






Copyright, 1917, by 

STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 
A /I rights reserved 

Copyright in England 

For permission to present any of these plays 

apply to the author <voho retains 

all dramatic rights 



/ ■ 

AUG -2 1917 
©CI.A473009 



TO 

MY MOTHER 



These Plays are altogether various. If 
you like one please do not read the others. 

The Author. 



TABLE OF CONTENTS 

PAGE 

His Second Girl i 

At the Church Door 32 

Honey 49 

The Dress Rehearsal of Hamlet .... 100 

The Pioneers 129 

In Mendelesia Pt. 1 181 

In Mendelesia Pt. II 204 

The Dryad 225 



HIS SECOND GIRL 

A Comedy in One Act 

Taking Place In an Ohio Valley City Sometime 
Before the Civil War 

THE PERSONS ARE: 

Mr. Randolph Dexter, a bachelor recently 

come of age and wealthy. 
Mr. Mark Forrell, his friend and guest. 
Mr. Blaisdell Throckmorton, his guest. 
Miss Beatrice Cameron, his cousin, who 

masquerades as his maid. 
Mrs. Dangerfield, the mother of his fiancee. 
Miss Julia Dangerfield, his fiancee. 

[The action takes place in the sitting-room 
of young Mr. Dexter' s residence. It is a large, 
beautiful old-fashioned room of that gracious 
time in the last century before good taste was 
strangled in the virtuous period following the 
Civil War. The tables, chairs, sofas, secre^ 
tary, are all perfect old mahogany, there are 
brocaded hangings in rich colors, and family 
portraits in oils of grim old gentlemen in 
frilled shirts and of lovely stiff ladies hang on 
the walls. For the benefit of those who may 
not be lucky enough to see the play, I will say 
that Mr, Randolph Dexter is a little above 

I 



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medium height, with square shoulders, trim and 
strong, fair, with green-blue eyes, 'very dark 
brown hair which he wears down to his collar 
to be in the mode and a lock of which contin- 
ually straggles down the center of his forehead, 
particularly when he is upset, as he generally 
is. He wears a dark blue broadcloth coat, 
somewhat high-shouldered and tight-waisted, 
a yellow satin waistcoat, and very full white 
trousers, a loosely flowing tie and huge watch- 
fob. His friend, Mr. Mark Forrell, is a small, 
slight young man, pale, with hazel eyes and 
brown hair, and immaculately and unosten- 
tatiously clad in black with light grey trousers, 
Mr. Blaisdell Throckmorton is very tall, very 
slender, and very fair with blue eyes and yellow 
hair, and a costume that would make any tailor 
feel that he had not lived in vain. It includes 
large checkered trousers, a plum-colored coat 
and blue brocaded waistcoat, with all the acces- 
sories of fobs, snowy shirt, curled locks, etc, 
Mrs. Dangerfield is very tall, very fat, very 
dark, in a rich purple silk dress with flounces 
from the bottom to the waist over voluminous 
hoopskirts, a black lace mantilla round her 
shoulders, a dressy bonnet with large strings 
tied under her chin, gold chains, cameo 
brooches, bracelets an inch wide, an imperious 
temper. Miss Julia Dangerfield is tall, dark, 
a handsome girl, waiting the husband and set- 
tlement that will develop her into her mother^s 
proportions; she wears a gold-colored silk — 
also full hoop-skirts — very low at the top, 
showing all of her beautiful neck and shoulders, 

2 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



also she wears a flat hat with white plumes 
sloping backward and ribbons tied under her 
chin. Miss Beatrice Cameron is perhaps a 
trifle below medium height, slender and grace- 
ful but strongly built, fair, with ravishing blue 
eyes — eyes that are called hypnotic and are 
said to belong to Aquarius people — and brown 
hair with a glint of gold in it; she has on a very 
simple little blue silk gown without hoops. 

It is late afternoon, about six o'clock, of a 
day in spring. The windows are open and the 
scent of blossoms enters. No one is in the 
room.Ji 

Randolph [entering, followed by Mark, 
His face is rather cloudy and he speaks with some 
irascibility^. Well, what do you want with me? 

Mark. Why, Ranny, dear boy, you know this 
can't go on. 

Randolph. What can't go on? 

Mark. Oh, dear boy, you know what I mean. 

Randolph. Confound it, be definite! You 
call me out here away from the fellows, my 
supper-party, where I'm supposed to be host, and 
then you philander. 

Mark. Well, dear boy, it's a little hard to 
approach you on such a subject. I — Oh, 
Ranny, dear boy, you oughtn't to do this way ! 

Randolph. What way? 

Mark. The way you're doing. 

Randolph [turning on him abruptly~\. Look 
here, Mark, I don't take criticism kindly. I 
wouldn't stand it at all from anybody but you. 

Mark. It doesn't seem as if you were stand- 

3 



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ing It very well from me. After all we've been 
to each other I hardly thought you'd misunder- 
stand me; that you'd misinterpret my motives. 

Randolph. Oh, hang your motives! What 
do you want? 

Mark. Weil, you're engaged to be married, 
aren't you? 

Randolph \_very sullenly and frowning^. I 
am. 

Mark. You expect to be married next week? 

Randolph. Of course. Look here, Mark, 
what's the matter with you? You know I'm not 
the sort of man to go back on my word? 

Mark. Go back on your word? Why 
should you? You're going to marry Julia Dan- 
gerfield and she's a splendid girl, handsome, 
high-spirited and rich. There are half a dozen 
fellows envying you. 

Randolph [smiling on one side of his mouthy. 
I wonder why her mother didn't pick out one of 
them? 

Mark. But her mother is a general — you 
know that — she's a general. She won't bear 
any carryings-on. And society won't either. 

Randolph. Carryings-on ! I'm a gentle- 
man, Mark, and I don't like insinuations even 
from you. What do you mean? 

Mark. I mean this girl. You know what's 
been going on in there — all the fellows casting 
moon-eyes at her. You know what's been going 
on ever since she came to you. You must know 
all the fellows are smitten. She's too outrage- 
ously pretty and attractive. Why do you have a 
housemaid like that ? 

4 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



Randolph. I didn't make her. 

Mark. No, apparently God did that. It 
took a master hand. But you accepted her 
with alacrity. You engaged her. Why did 
you? , 

Randolph. Probably because she didn't go 
to you first. 

Mark. Oh ! 

Randolph [loudly]. Don't be so confounded 
superior. You would have done just exactly 
what I did. 

Mark. Hush! Don't talk so loud. The 
boys will hear you. 

Randolph. No, they won't. They're the 
length of the double parlors away. 

Mark. But you took her in without knowing 
a thing about her. 

Randolph. How could I? She was just 
over from England. She couldn't give any ref- 
erences, poor little thing. 

Mark. You took her in when you didn't 
really need a girl at all. 

Randolph. Perhaps I didn't. But she 
needed a place. 

Mark. She could easily have gotten work 
any^'here. 

Randolph. Like enough. And perhaps it is 
lucky she happened to come to me and is living 
now in a respectable home where she has a pro- 
tector. 

Mark. Oh, pshaw ! Are you going to pro- 
tect all the stray servant girls in the world? 

Randolph. Look here, Mark, I don't like you 
to speak that way of her. She's just as refined in 

5 



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her speech and manners and soul as any lady I 
ever knew. 

Mark. But the point is all that is superfluous 
in a maid and a maid is quite superfluous in your 
establishment. You've got plenty of servants. 
You have a housekeeper and how many others? 

Randolph. I have a housekeeper and mammy 
cooks and there Is a coachman and his wife and a 
butler. 

Mark. That would seem to be enough for the 
simple household of a young bachelor. You 
oughtn't to have a girl. She is, to say the least, 
unnecessary. 

Randolph. Look here, Mark, I don't want 
to seem to be excusing myself or shirking responsi- 
bility or anything, but the truth is she just dropped 
in one day as if from heaven — 

Mark [groaning~\. Oh, Lord! 

Randolph. — and said she heard I wanted 
a maid. I don't know where on earth she heard 
it for I hadn't dreamed of it myself, but she 
seemed so sure of it and — well, you couldn't 
tell her you didn't want her, you couldn't tell her 
that when she had her blue eyes fixed on you, no- 
body could disappoint her that way. She said she 
had no home or any place to go. And — well, in 
ten minutes she had everything settled and had 
taken off her bonnet and brought in her bag and 
was dusting the parlor ornaments. 

Mark. Oh, Lord ! But you're soft. 

Randolph [scathingly^. I said it took her 
ten minutes with me. I should judge it would 
have taken five with you. 

\_Just then Sally, the maid, enters. She is 

6 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



graceful and quiet and is about to glide 
through the room when the two young men 
turn quickly f see her behind them and stand 
looking at her, their backs to the audience.] 

Sally. Oh, pardon me. I didn't mean to in- 
trude. 

Randolph [solicitously]. Is there anything 
you want? Anything I can do for you? 

Sally. Oh, no, sir. I was just going through 
to open all the library windows to let the thick 
tobacco smoke go out. 

Randolph. That's a splendid idea. 

Sally. Oh, thank you, sir. [She goes.] 

Mark. Speaking of angels ! 

Randolph [earnestly]. She is, Mark, upon 
my soul, she is/ 

Mark. Oh, yes, there is no doubt about it but 
that is exactly the trouble. You've no business 
whatever to have an angel. And above all, you've 
no business to have an angel wait the table tonight. 

Randolph [thrusting his hands into his pockets 
and shrugging his shoulders]. She wanted to. 

Mark. I dare say. But you know all the boys 
are cracked about her and have acted outrageously 
ever since she came. For the last ten days they 
have all been hanging round your house half the 
time just for a chance word with your maid. 

Randolph. You've been here a few times 
yourself. 

Mark. They'll all get drunk tonight and 
heaven knows what will happen. 

Randolph. They will not get drunk. 

Mark. They will. It's your farewell supper 
to your bachelor friends and you've got cham- 

7 



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pagne. Blaisdell Throckmorton always gets 
drunk if he hasn't more than a dose of qumine and 
whiskey to do it on. 

Randolph. I'm not going to stay here to 
quarrel with you. Heaven knows I've got enough 
on my mind. [Feelm^ly.'] 

Mark. Oh, well, go back, then. Only, please 
think over what I have said and for heaven's sake 
do something about it if you can. I'll be with you 
in a moment. I want a breath of fresh air. 
[Goes to the door and opens i/.] That tobacco 
smoke in there ! 

Randolph. Too bad you don't smoke your- 
self, then you wouldn't notice. 

\_He goes out to the right through the double 
parlors to his supper party, Mark stands in 
the door looking out. In a moment Sally 
returns.^ 

Mark. Oh ! — Ah ! Miss — 

Sally. Just plain Sally, sir, at your service, 
sir. 

Mark. But you're not plain at all, Sally. 

Sally. That's such an old joke, sir, isn't it, 
sir? One can always use it safely, can't one, sir? 
[She passes on quickly.'] 

Mark. Won't you stop a moment? I — I — 
I wanted to speak to you about something. 

Sally. I may be needed in there to wait. 

Mark. Maybe you need to wait here a mo- 
ment. [She smiles at his play on words. '\ You 
know I'd feel so much more comfortable to call 
you Miss Sally. 

Sally [in alarm"]. Oh, please don't, sir. Oh, 
please don't, really. 

8 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



Mark. You're so very modest for so pretty 
a girl. 

Sally. Did you want me for anything, sir? 

Mark. Why, yes, — er — I — er. You know- 
Dexter is very easily managed — up to a certain 
point — by the right person — isn't he? 

Sally. What do you mean, Mr. Mark? 

Mark. I mean — er — won't you let me ad- 
dress you as Miss Sally? It would make it so 
much easier to explain. 

Sally [quite in a panic of alarm^. No, I can't, 
really, Mr. Mark. Oh, no, it would never do. 

Mark. I always think of you in that way. 
You are — you are so beautiful and genteel — it 
is — it is almost unseemly and dangerous for you 
to be — to act the part of a servant in the estab- 
lishment of a young bachelor. It — er — there 
is such a thing as scandal, you know. [He finally 
blurts it out, looking very red and embarrassed.^ 

Sally. Oh, dear me, the very idea ! 

Mark [very solemnly^. I am afraid people 
are talking now. Dexter wouldn't tell you. He 
is so chivalrous. And he wouldn't ask you to 
take another place. But I thought perhaps — 
you could manage him if you wished — that you 
could just go quietly away. 

Sally. Oh, Mr. Mark, you wouldn't turn me 
out? 

Mark. Oh, no, no, no, pray don't call it that. 

Sally. But it is that. [Her voice trembles 
and she is on the verge of tears. ~\ 

Mark [very much perturbed]. Oh, please 
don't weep ! 

Sally. Then don't turn me out. 

9 



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Mark. I'm not. I — I was just advising you 
to go while there is yet time. You know he is 
engaged. You haven't seen his future mother-in- 
law yet. 

Sally. No, sir. Is she very lovely? 

Mark. Mrs. Dangerfield lovely? My Godl 

Sally. I meant Miss Dangerfield. 

Mark. Oh, yes, very. Mrs. Dangerfield 
took her daughter on to New York to buy the 
wedding frock and other things two weeks ago 
just before you came. They returned this morn- 
ing — I don't suppose the ladies are unpacked 
yet. I don't think Mrs. Dangerfield knows about 
your being here. When she does — 

l_Steps are heard outside^ there is a rustling of 
silks and hoopskirts and Mrs. Dangerfield ap- 
pears at the door. She enters and stretches 
out her hand to Mark. For so large a 
woman she has a mincing manner.^ 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Ah, Mark, you dear fel- 
low, how are you ? 

Mark. Oh, good evening, Mrs. Dangerfield. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. I just dropped in to see 
how the party is going on. Everything beautiful? 
Are the oysters good? And you're drinking 
Judge Dexter's old wine, I'll be bound ! But why 
aren't you at the table. [ Turning , she sees Sally.] 
Who is this ? 

Mark [hurriedly'\. She is just a maid Ranny 
got to help serve tonight. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. To serve? Nonsense. 
He has plenty of help. Her costume, Mark, is, 
to say the least, odd — odd, in a maid — strange, 
unbecoming. 

10 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



Mark [nervously and hurriedly^. Oh, it 
seems to me quite becoming. 

Mrs. Dangerfield [scathingly]. Perhaps it 
does to you ! 

Mark. And very simple, very simple. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Simphcity, Mark, is 
often a trap. [To Sally, whom she examines 
critically through her lorgnette.] Where did you 
come from? 

Sally [with a curtsey]. I am an English 
maid, madame. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. English maid, indeed! 
How long have you been here ? 

Sally. I have been with Mr. Dexter two 
weeks. 

Mrs. Dangerfield [with a scream]. Two 
weeks ! And / never knew anything of this. 

Mark. Oh, dear lady, you were away, so you 
didn't happen to know it, naturally. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Don't " dear lady '' me, 
Mark. You told me she was here only to serve 
this evening and now I find she has been here two 
weeks. I shall go right in and speak to Ran- 
dolph. 

Mark [stepping in front of her as she starts 
and blocking the way]. Surely you wouldn't do 
that. Think a moment, Mrs. Dangerfield. 
Ranny mightn't like it. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Under such circum- 
stances am I called upon to care what Randolph 
likes? 

Mark [laying his hand on her arm]. But 
think of the consequences — the far-spreading 
consequences. You would bring ridicule on 

II 



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Ranny and the boys would all tell the story far and 
wide. 

Mrs. Dangerfield [stopping]. Very well, 
then, bring him out to me at once. 

[Mark goes, glancing back with a worried look 
at Sally. She is about to slide out in the 
other direction but Mrs, Dangerfield detains 
her.'] 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Stop here! [Sally 
stops but gives Mrs. Dangerfield as sinister a 
glance as is possible from her lovely eyes.] You 
say you are a foreigner? 

Sally. Oh, oui, madame. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Ah, French, one might 
have known ! Lie number one. You said you 
were English. 

Sally. Oh, yes, madame, but I have served in 
France. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Well, I will say you 
don't look French — with their dirty black com- 
plexions. But I should hesitate to say what you 
look. If you are English why did you come to 
this country? Couldn't you find enough victims 
there? 

Sally. Oh, I came to get work, ma- 
dame. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Work indeed! You 
look as If you had worked. Humph ! Where 
did you know Mr. Dexter? 

Sally [her eyes growing large and brilliant , 
her face flushing]. Madame, I refuse to be ques- 
tioned by you. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. It makes little differ- 
ence. If you answered my questions I could ex- 

12 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



pect nothing but lies. Girls of your class never 
tell the truth. 

Randolph [entering, followed by Mark. He 
speaks mith a sweepingly polite manner~\. Mrs. 
Dangerfield ! To what do I owe the honor of 
this visit? 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Randolph, I only 
dropped in to see how the party was going on. 

Randolph. Surely you would have too much 
consideration to interrupt it. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. I had no intention of in- 
terrupting it, of course, Randolph. I came rather 
to assist you, to do anything I could for you. 

Randolph. But at a gentleman's supper 
party. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. My thought was as It 
always is, to do for you, to assist you, to be a 
mother to you — 

Randolph. — But at a gentleman's cham- 
pagne supper? A mother seems a trifle super- 
fluous. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. A mother should be wel- 
come anywhere — in a palace or in the gutter! 
And I came here, Randolph, and discover this — 
this hussy! 

[Waving her hand majestically toward little 
Sally who has edged of towards the door, 
Ranny starts violently.^ 

Mark. Oh, Mrs. Dangerfield, don't say that! 

Randolph [striding over to Sally and taking 
her by the armi . I will not have you listen to her. 
Will you go for a moment and let me explain? 
[He opens the door for her most deferentially and 
she goes out.~\ 

13 



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Mrs. Dangerfield. Randolph, this is ab- 
surd, this is comical, this is beyond belief. You 
treat this servant as if she were the Queen of 
Sheba. It is shocking. You must dismiss her at 
once. 

Randolph. Mrs. Dangerfield, there is noth- 
ing shocking about it. And you know, really, you 
are insulting me. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Randolph, you are in- 
sulting all of us. 

Randolph. I ? 

Mark [approaching her^. It is all so per- 
fectly simple, dear lady, so perfectly simple. This 
is just a maid in Ranny's large establishment — 
you know he needs so many. And now don't you 
think it would on the whole be much better for 
you to go? 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Don't *' dear lady " me 
again, Mark, and it isn't perfectly simple at all — 
far from it. If it was, why should you want me 
to go? You are just taking Randolph's part, 
standing together, as men do. 

Mark. Dear me, no, I do assure you. But 
the boys are all in there, they will get wind of this 
and it will be all over town by tomorrow. And 
the scandal — think of it ! 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Oh, we must try to keep 
it quiet — we must try not to let it get noised 
abroad. But, Randolph, mercy! What if your 
cousin should happen to arrive and discover the 
situation? [To Mark.'] He is expecting any 
moment his cousin, a very rich and fashionable 
young lady who has been residing abroad. What 
would she think of our manners and morals. 

14 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



How would she accept the situation? She would 
not accept it at all. Randolph, you must dismiss 
this creature instantly. 

Randolph [drawing himself up in angry 
amazement^. Dismiss her? — I — 

Mark [breaking in']. Of course he will, dear 
lady, certainly, without doubt he will dismiss her 
— that is the very thing for him to do, but not 
just this instant. The supper must go on — any 
one can see that — for appearance' sake. She 
must wait the table just as usual and nobody must 
be allowed to suspect. In the morning it will all 
be arranged. We must avoid a scene tonight. 
Now let me see you to the gate, dear lady. [He 
leans over her and offers her his arm.] 

Mrs. Dangerfield. No, we must not have a 
scene. — If she's going to act up. We must try 
to keep up appearances. But it will have to be 
done. 

Mark [officiously]. Oh, yes, of course, you 
are quite right to try to avoid a scene and scandal. 
In the morning it will all be attended to, I assure 
you. 

Mrs. Dangerfield [rising and taking his 
arm]. Or perhaps later tonight. I can depend 
upon you, Randolph? 

Mark. Of course you can. I'll see that he 
does It, dear lady. 

Mrs. Dangerfield [as they go out]. Don't 
*' dear lady " me, Mark, after fibbing to me the 
way you did. I can't account for it — for your 
fibbing to me. I don't like young men to fib. 
[They go.] 

Randolph [strides over to the other door, 

15 



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left, through which Sally has gone, opens it and 
calls], Sally! 

\_She comes in instantly as if she had been stand- 
ing there waiting. They look at each other, 
she flushed and troubled, yet with a gleam of 
the madcap left that might break into a smile 
any moment, he flushed, angry, embarrassed, 
glowering. ~\ 

Sally. Thank you, sir, don't you think you 
ought to go back to your party now? 

Randolph \_with deep feeling]. What has 
just taken place — I wouldn't have had it happen 
for the whole world. I would rather cut my 
hand off than have you hear that woman's insult. 

Sally. Oh, sir, really, don't you think you'd 
better go back to your supper party? 

Randolph. The supper party go hang! 
There is only one thing in the world I care about 
— God knows it may be wrong but I can't help it 
and God knows I don't want to help it. It is the 
sweetest thing that ever came into my life. 

Sally. Oh, sir, really you don't need a maid 
at all, you know, and don't you think I'd better go ? 

Randolph. Go? Aren't you happy here? 

Sally. I haven't been so happy since before 
my — you see, sir, I had a great loss before I 
came to this country — the death of my father — 
and I never expected to be happy again though he 
said I would be. He said I was a love-child and 
would never be sad long. And you, sir, from the 
time I first saw you, you have been so good to me, 
you have given me joy. 

Randolph. I am deeply sorry to hear of your 
grief. You have all my sympathy. I may have 

i6 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



been bad-tempered sometimes — I didn't know 
you were in trouble. Why didn't you tell me? 

Sally. I don't like to make people sad. My 
father never did. But you, sir, are you happy? 

Randolph [intensely]. I didn't know it was 
possible to be so happy as I have been these last 
two weeks. 

Sally. It was a beautiful time, sir. You 
know the English think there is nothing like an 
English spring, but your spring is lovelier because 
it is more awkward, shy and thin and exquisite. 
The birds follow each other and the flowers fol- 
low each other like a procession. And today has 
been the crowning day of all. After the shower 
this morning I never saw the grass so green, or 
heard the birds sing so, or felt the air so fresh 
and caressing. And all day and now the scent 
of roses and honeysuckle is everywhere. [She 
stops and sniffs the air, her eyes upturned.] And 
a robin out there — have you heard him? — he 
has been singing his dear twilight song over and 
over and over. It is as if something beautiful 
were happening. 

Randolph. Sally, it is you that has happened. 

Sally. Oh, then, sir, are you going to marry 
her? 

Randolph [starting and looking at her amaz- 
edly~\. I am a gentleman, a man of honor, a man 
of my word. 

Sally. Oh, then, sir, don't you think some- 
thing, something is bound to happen? 

[He gazes at her in the most surprised, won- 
dering way and just then Mark comes in.] 

Mark [with a deep sigh]. To the gate! So 

17 



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far so good. Now what about this cousin, 
Ranny? Is she likely to drop on our heads this 
evening? 

Randolph. Oh, yes, old chap. I meant to 
tell you. You've been such a trump to me, help- 
ing me out. One good turn deserves another. 
This cousin is imminent. \_Sally gives a slight 
start and watches him.~\ Her name's Beatrice 
Cameron, she's a cousin on my mother's side, her 
father and my mother were cousins. He was a 
sort of invalid and so they traveled a great part 
of the time for his health. She's lived most of 
her life in Europe. I've never seen her. He 
died a while ago and left her alone in the world, 
and I, being nearest of kin, he made me her guar- 
dian till she is twenty-one. She's nineteen now. 
She^ expected to come over here, but I had a letter 
from her about a month ago saying she was about 
to start and I haven't heard from her since. I'm 
worried about that in addition to everything else. 
She's said to be a madcap, full of pranks, and I 
don't know what may have happened. I haven't 
heard from the barrister who has charge of her 
affairs over there, either. Mark, if she should 
arrive and I happened to be away or anything, I 
want you please to look after her. Mrs. Danger- 
field is planning to — but — well, you know 
ladies sometimes don't agree. I don't know that 
my little cousin would take to her. 

Sally. I should think it highly probable she 
wouldn't. 

Mark. That's all right, Ranny, for heaven's 
sake go back to your guests. I'll take care of the 
little cousin. [He happens to turn and look at 

i8 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



Sally as he says this and she gives a queer little 
start and smile. ~\ 

Sally. Oh, yes, sir, please go. 

[Randolph goes through the door at the left 
back to the party.^ 

Mark. That's good. 

Sally. Won't you go back, too, sir? 

Mark. I will in a moment. As soon as I 
make sure she isn't coming back. 

Sally. I must get a fresh pitcher of water. 

\^She goes out through the right door. Mark 
walks to the outside door, listens a few mo- 
ments, looking out, then closes the door and 
slides the bolt across it. As he turns about 
Blaisdell Throckmorton enters from the left 
door.l 

Blaisdell [very jovially^. How do you do, 
Mark? 

Mark [shortly^. Well, thank you. 

Blaisdell. What are you doin', lockin' doors 
for, Mark? 

Mark. To keep devils out. 

Blaisdell. Thought I heard voices in here 
a while ago. Funny party. Host away from 
the table half the time — and you look like the 
head undertaker. Plenty of bubblin' liquid flow- 
in', too. Say, Mark, have you seen anything of 
a pretty girl round here? 

Mark. Oh, shut your head and go back to 
the table. 

Blaisdell. I ain't a-goin' to shut my head 
for you and I ain't a-goin back till I get ready. 
Why don't you go back yourself? Whose grand- 
father are you, anyhow? 

19 



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Mark. Don't make more of an ass of your- 
self than you can help, Blais. You're drunk. 

Blaisdell. Don't you say that again to me 
or I'll knock you down, you little faded-out toad- 
stool. I ain't drunk and what's more I ain't 
goin' to be. I haven't touched a drop. Sheer 
waste of good liquor, too. There's all that cham- 
pagne just settin' quietly in bottles when it might 
be dancin' in my head. But she don't like men to 
drink and therefore I shall never touch the ac- 
cursed fluid again. [Fery grandiloquently .l^ 

Mark. You've lost your heart again, have 
you? 

Blaisdell. I've lost my heart again and for 
the last time. She may not be my equal in the 
eyes of society but I'll wager all I've got against 
any man's dirty money that she's pure gold, that 
she's as fine metal as any lady in the country. 

Mark [turning on him suddenly^. Whom are 
you talking about? 

Blaisdell. This little maid that's workin' 
here. I'm goin' to marry her. 

Mark. You infernal ass. You don't know 
what you're talking about. Go on back to the 
table and try to behave yourself decently like a 
gentleman. 

Blaisdell. Go on back to the table yourself. 
Seems to me you've absented yourself more than 
I have. Everybody knows what you're up to, 
though, that you're out here after the little char- 
mer. And I want to inform you that if you call 
me an ass again I'll ass-sassinate you. I don't 
know what's got into you. You used to talk and 
act like a gentleman. 

20 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



Mark. For the Lord's sake, go on back and 
don't make any more trouble about this — this 
girl. There's enough trouble already. 

Blaisdell. I ain't a-goin' to make any 
trouble, I'm a-goin' to stop all the trouble — I'm 
a-goin' to marry her. I'll tell you what, Mark, 
as between man and man, I never wanted to get 
married before but she can have me. I'm goin' 
to take her to my bosom and protect her so as all 
you fools will have to let her alone. You'd all 
carry on with her but there ain't one of you would 
marry her. But I would. She may be of lowly, 
humble origin but I'm a-goin' to raise her to my 
estate. [Triumphantly. 1 She shall keep only a 
pitcher of water on my grandfather's sideboard 
and stir nothing but tea with my grandmother's 
silver spoons. 

\_Sally enters with a pitcher of water and is 
hurrying through, hut Blaisdell tries to stop 
her.^ 
Blaisdell. Hold on there ! Won't you stop 
a minute ? I want to talk to you. I've got some- 
thing I want to tell you. 

Sally. No, I can't, really, I must hasten. 
[She goes on through and Blaisdell after a mo- 
ment of looking sheepish with dropped jaw 
follows. 1 
Blaisdell. I'll follow the pure and unsullied 
water pitcher. 

[Mark is left alone, looking after Blaisdell and 
frowning. He bites his fingers and seems 
nervous and much perturbed. He brings his 
right fist down into his left palm hard. Then 
he puts his hands into his pockets and stands 

21 



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anxiously waiting. In a minute or two Sally 
returns 'flushed and excited. Mark hur- 
riedly pulls his hands out of his pockets. 
She is about to pass on through but he nerv- 
ously detains her.^ 

Mark. Please wait a moment, Miss Sally, 
please! 

Sally [turning to him with her quick , lovely 
smile^. Plain Sally, sir. 

Mark. Please let me call you that, please! 
You're not at all plain and you're Miss to me — 
you're a princess — and nothing's plain — [with 
an effort to smile'\ — things are getting worse and 
worse tangled. 

Sally. Is there anything new, sir? Is it very 
awful ? 

Mark. New? Awful? Oh, dear me, yes. 
I don't see any way out of it but — Miss Sally, 
will you be my wife ? 

Sally [with a little scream of surprise]. Oh, 
mon dieu! 

Mark [very nervous and twitchy~\. Say you 
will at once and everything will be all right. I — 

Sally. Oh, Mr. Mark, you are just doing 
this out of pity! You are so generous! You 
would sacrifice yourself! I couldn't think of let- 
ting you. 

Mark [huskily]. I adore you! 

Sally. Oh, don't think of such a thing. Do 
go and eat your supper. You haven't had a bite. 
You must be famished. Why, they've got to the 
quail and you haven't even had an oyster. 

Mark. I don't want anything to eat. 

Sally. Oh, yes, you do. Every gentleman 

22 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



does. After you've had some supper you won't 
think about doing such morbidly unsellish deeds. 
Please? [She stands enticingly before him, mo- 
tioning him back to the supper party and begging 
him.^ 

Mark. Oh, Miss Sally, if you only knew how 
I feel ! 

Sally. You'll feel better when you've had a 
dish of soup. [Taking him by the arm.^ 

Mark. I don't want any soup — 

Sally. Don't you like soup? I don't blame 
you — I don't like it myself. But some fresh 
celery and radishes will give an appetite for the 
birds. 

Mark. I don't want any food. I — 

Sally. You've just gone beyond your hungry 
time, but after you've had a bite or two you will 
be all right. 

Mark. Oh, my dear, I want — 

Sally. It isn't so much what you want as 
what you ought to have. Do come along, sir. 

Mark. Oh, my — my dearest — 

Sally [dropping his arm and shoving him 
through the door on the right^. You need let- 
tuce and radishes and mashed potatoes and as- 
paragus on toast. 

[She pushes him through and comes back and 
drops into a chair. She hardly knows 
whether to laugh or cry and putting her 
hands to her face dashes her fingers over her 
eyes as if to scatter away the cobwebs. Al- 
most at once Blaisdell appears.^ 

Blaisdell. Oh, Lordy, at last! You know 
I've been tryin' all evenin' to get a word with you 

23 



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but you're such a butterfly, lightin' now here, now 
there. And you're so busy, too. A busy butter- 
fly — ha — ha ! But a butterfly has got no busi- 
ness to be busy — it ought to be just pretty. 
Have you observed that I haven't touched a drop 
this evenin' ? Not one single swallow has passed 
my lips nor never will again. 

Sally. Oh, I am so glad. 

Blaisdell. Not one drop of the beady liquid. 
It's all bein' wasted on the other fellows. But 
you don't want me to, so I won't. See what an 
influence you have over a man. Or, that is to 
say, over me. I wouldn't say you could do it with 
any man but you certainly can do just as you want 
with me. You can twist me round your little 
finger. I'm your abject slave. 

Sally. Oh, Mr. Throckmorton, don't talk so 
foolishly. 

Blaisdell. I ain't talkin' foolishly, that's 
just it — I mean it. I mean every word I say. 
I'm a man of my word. You know, honest, most 
men ain't. A man'll promise a girl to swear off 
and never drink another drop and all the while he 
don't even intend to try. And men promise in the 
marriage service to love their wives always and 
ninety percent of 'em stop in the first year. The 
rest stop, too, but pretend not to — lots of good 
that does a woman — lots of fun she gets out of 
that. But I ain't that kind. I'm faithful and 
romantic. 

Sally. That will be a great comfort for your 
bride to know, I'm sure. 

Blaisdell. I feel as if you ought to know it 
and something else, too. I've got as blue blood 

24 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



as anybody, I can hold up my head with the best. 
My wife will have all the old family furniture and 
silver and linen as well as all the new things she 
wants. My folks are aristocratic old Virginia 
stock and I'm proud but it ain't false pride, none 
of that darned foolishness, I ain't a snob. I'd 
marry a girl no matter how humble her origin if 
I loved her and she was a lady at heart. 

Sally. All this is most interesting, Mr. 
Throckmorton, but I haven't time to stop to listen, 
I must go see if the strawberries are ready. 

Blaisdell. Don't call me mister, my dear, 
call me Blaisy. You know what I mean by what 
I'm sayin', don't you? All the other fellows have 
been foolin' with you and it makes me mad as a 
hornet. Be my wife, my dear, straight away and 
we'll snap our fingers at 'em. 

Sally. Oh, Mr. Throckmorton, I must go. 

Blaisdell [catching her hand}. Not until 
you say the word. 

Sally. I'll never say It. 

Blaisdell. You think Tm too high up for 
you. My dear girl, it don't make any difference 
to me, I do assure you. And when you're my 
wife I'd never refer to your workin' out. I don't 
feel in the least as if I was stoopin' to you, I do 
assure you. 

Sally. Oh, it is utterly impossible! I 
couldn't marry you — I couldn't really — if I 
were queen of France. 

Blaisdell {^his manner changing from conde- 
scension to entreaty}. You ain't a-goin' to give 
me the mitten? 

Sally. It is utterly Impossible! Quite! 

25 



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Blaisdell [dropping on his knees~\. Please, 
my darlin', please marry me ! 

Sally. Get up at once. Some one may 
come. 

Blaisdell. Please have me ! 
Sally. It is impossible, utterly. Get up! 
[She tries to pull away from him. He sprawls 
on the floor, still holding her hand, then gets to 
his feet and catches her.~\ 

Blaisdell. Please be my wife, please marry 
me ! Give me a kiss ! [He throws his arms 
about her and tries to kiss her, she fights him and 
screams loudly, there is pounding on the outside 
door, and in a moment Ranny appears followed by 
Mark.] 

Randolph [fiercely angry, he runs at Blaisdell 
and strikes him]. You damned rascal! 

[The pounding at the door continues with 
cries from the outside. Ranny punishes 
Blaisdell who releases Sally and rubs his jaw 
which bears the mark of Randolph' s fist, Ran- 
dolph puts his arm round Sally and she, half 
crying, clings to him.] 
Randolph. You hound ! 
Blaisdell [rubbing his jaw] . I ain't a hound. 
[The pounding continues, Mark unbolts the 
door and in all the confusion Mrs. Danger- 
field enters majestically, followed by Julia. 
Mrs. Dangerfield sees Randolph with his 
arm round Sally, throws up her hands and 
her eyes and shrieks. Sally tries to slide 
away from Randolph but he holds her tightly 
and looks blackly at Mrs. Dangerfield.] 
Mrs. Dangerfield. Oh, mercy, oh, mercy, 

26 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



mercy, mercy! What shame, what infamy, what 
disgrace I 

Mark. Dear lady, why did you come back 
tonight? 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Why, in truth, did I? 
It is well I came. It is high time for me to come. 
Julia, you know what we have heard? Now you 
can see for yourself. 

Julia \_haughtily^. I can, indeed! 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Oh, it is shameful, dis- 
graceful, scandalous! Why did I come back, 
Mark? Because I had no sooner got home than 
some of the neighbors came in and told me about 
the goings-on here in my absence. How Ran- 
dolph had taken in this — this — creature ! 
How all of you young fellows had been caught by 
her pretty ( ?) face — paint, I'll be bound — and 
have been fairly living here, coming ostensibly to 
see Randolph but really to flirt with her, 
have been here morning, noon, and night. Oh, 
I guessed it all myself and could have told them 
more than they told me. I knew you had all 
planned this supper to be a regular orgy! Oh, 
you [suddenly turning on Blaisdell~\ you, Blais- 
dell Throckmorton, what are you doing standing 
there listening to all of this? You get right out 
of here at once ! 

Blaisdell [timorous hut pig-headed^. I ain't 
a-goin' to get out. I'm goin' to stay. I'll pro- 
tect the young lady. I'm a-goin' to marry her. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Marry? Fudge! You 
none of you think of marrying. You all of you 
stand about like bumps on logs, like monkeys, like 
stones, when you ought to be on your bended knees 

27 



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apologizing for the outrageous affront you have 
offered my daughter. Julia, have you nothing to 
say for yourself? 

Julia. I have, ma, if you would ever give me 
a chance to speak. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. It is your right and 
your duty to declare your reasons and intentions. 

Julia [haughtily and majestically]. What I 
have to say can be put most briefly though my 
heart is surcharged with indignation and grief. 
It is fortunate I have an audience who can be my 
witnesses. After your falsity, Randolph, you can 
not expect me to become your wife, and I there- 
fore give back to you the ring which now is a mere 
token of your broken word. [She very loftily 
and ostentatiously removes her engagement ring 
and hands it to Randolph, while Mrs, Dangerfield 
bursts into tears.] 

Randolph [with glowering eyes and deep dis- 
gust]. I don't want the thing. [He doesn't take 
it so that it drops on the floor and Blaisdell stoops 
and picks it up.] 

Julia [her voice beginning to tremble]. You 
don't even apologize or beg my pardon or even 
try to explain ! 

Randolph. You never gave me a chance and 
I wouldn't now. You have thought the worst you 
could think and now you can think anything you 
like. 

Julia. Oh, who would have guessed the base- 
ness of man? You are treating me brutally! 
[She bursts into tears.] 

Mrs. Dangerfield [through her sobs]. Oh, 
what would your dear cousin say to such a scene ! 

28 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



What would that aristocratic, wealthy, high-bred 
young lady say to such goings-on? Oh, dear 
me ! 

Sally [who has been trying vainly to release 
herself from Randolph, now pulls away and 
makes herself heard]. It is I who must explain. 
I ought to have explained in the beginning. It is 
all my fault. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. It surely is. 

Sally. But I meant no harm. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Oh! 

Sally. I hadn't an idea — I hadn't really. 
I am Ranny's cousin — I am Beatrice Cameron. 

[There is general consternation, Mrs. Dan- 
gerfield and her daughter forget their tears. 
All the company speak in one breath.] 

Mark. Oh ! 

Blaisdell. Good Lord ! 

Julia. Oh, my gracious ! 

Mrs. Dangerfield. A likely story ! 

Sally. Oh, I can easily prove it by my pack- 
ing-case and my visiting-cards and the marking 
on my linen and what not. I didn't plan the de- 
ception, I didn't really. I only meant to take him 
by surprise. But when I got here he thought I 
was a maid trying to hire and he was so funny and 
formal and it was such a joke that I just couldn't 
resist it. And so I let him think so and made him 
take me and then things went on and on and a time 
never seemed to come to explain and things got 
into a worse and worse tangle until I could only 
pray that something would happen. 

Randolph. And something has happened. 

Blaisdell. Good Lord! But I reckon I 

29 



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was the only one that said she was a lady. I 
knew she was somehow. 

Mrs. Dangerfield [recovering herself]. 
Oh, what an evening of surprises ! [Advancing to 
Beatrice,] My dear, if you really are Randolph's 
cousin, that changes the aspect of everything. 

Randolph [sternly]. It does. 

Mrs. Dangerfield. Of course in that case 
we would welcome you. [She stretches out both 
hands to Beatrice to take hers hut the latter draws 
hack and Mrs. Dangerfield, as if not noticing, 
turns to Randolph.] And now, Randolph, as it 
was all a mistake, you and Julia can make it up. 
[With a shaking of the head to the company.] 
Oh, these lovers' quarrels ! 

Randolph. After all that has passed I think 
Julia will hardly care to do that. Shall Mark see 
you to the gate, Mrs. Dangerfield? 

Julia. Come on, ma. Can't you see that 
Ranny's In one of his tempers now? We'd better 
go. He can come over and see me in the morn- 
ing. [With an arch smile at Randolph which he 
does not notice.] 

Mrs. Dangerfield. We will part then for 
the present. I and JuHa will come to call on your 
cousin in a few days, Randolph. 

Randolph. You are most considerate. 

Mrs. Dangerfield [taking Mark's arm]. 
Good evening, Miss Cameron. 

Beatrice. Good night. 

Blaisdell. I reckon I'll go, too. [He of- 
fers his arm to Julia, who takes it.] I've got 
your ring, you know. [They go out, Julia with a 
backward smile at Randolph which he does not 

30 



HIS SECOND GIRL 



return. Beatrice watches Randolph. As soon as 
they are gone, she jumps to him.^ 

Beatrice. Oh, you poor boy, what an escape I 

Randolph. So you are Beatrice? 

Beatrice. I am. Don't you like me just as 
well, nice person? 

Randolph. I tried to be honorable, to keep 
my word to them like a gentleman. 

Beatrice. They did it themselves. That's 
the nice part of it. 

Randolph. I tried to keep my word but — 
my God ! What I've been through ! You must 
know that I'm madly in love with you. Will you 
marry me? 

Beatrice. Oh! [She makes a queer little 
gesture, half raising herself, holding her arms 
close to her, and gazing into his eyes, till she 
closes hers when he takes her in his arms. He 
kisses her and then she opens her eyes again, look- 
ing deep into his.^ 

Beatrice. Oh, do you smell the roses and 
honeysuckle now? Do you hear the robin's dear 
twilight song? 

Randolph. Oh, my little love ! 

Beatrice. You'll have to take me in and in- 
troduce me to the boys. I have been very naughty 
but I'll never play another prank again, nice per- 
son, because I love you so ! 



[Curtain] 
31 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 

The time is today 

the persons are ; 

Pan. 

Minerva. 

The Bridegroom. 

The Bride. 

[One sees the vestibule of an old and very 
aristocratic church in New York City. It is a 
large vestibule, the church itself being large, is 
sealed in dark weathered oak carved in Gothic 
style. The floor is dark grey marble. Some 
small electric lights in bulbs — the only modern 
innovation — designed to represent candles, 
stand out high on the walls and give the only 
light so that the place is rather dim and the 
farther corners quite obscure. Rice is scat- 
tered on the floor, bits of smilax and asparagus 
fern and some broken flowers, including the 
head of a white rose. Swinging double doors 
are on either side of the back opening into the 
church, and through one of these slowly, si- 
lently, cautiously. Pan enters, clad in his long, 
beautiful spotted leopard's skin and with his 
pipe, Syrinx, and his shepherd's crook in one 
hand. He is rather tall, perfectly formed, 
young, with no beard, but a fair skin, shaggy 
brown hair over his pointed ears, full red lips 

32 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 



and blue eyes that would be laughing but are 
now serious, almost stern. He peers about, 
looking at everything curiously, goes to one of 
the electric lights and puffs up at it, trying to 
blow it out, smiles and tosses his head when he 
is unable to do so, and then kicks about the rice 
and strewn flowers, suddenly sees the head of 
the white rose and stands transfixed, gazing at 
it. As he stands there gazing at the ground 
Minerva appears from a shadowy corner. She 
is very tall and straight and statuesque, very 
perfect and unapproachable, with eyes far 
apart and dark brown hair flowing. She is 
clad in stiff long grey draperies that give almost 
the appearance of marble, wears her breast- 
plate and helmet and carries her spear in her 
right hand, her shield with the Medusa head 
on it in her left. She, too, seems preoccupied 
with the appearance of the floor and does not 
notice Pan. He, at her approach, starts vio^ 
lently, then seeing who it is, he smiles in sur- 
prise and relief.'] 

Pan. Well, by all the gods, Minerva, you 
gave me a start ! I took you for a person, not 
the personification of wisdom. Where on earth 
did you come from? 

Minerva. From heaven, of course, my dear 
Pan. 

Pan. Heaven, where there are no broken 
flowers. [He kicks viciously at the head of the 
white rose.] 

Minerva. They ought not to break them 
here, it is a waste and unsightly, too. 

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Pan. Even broken flowers are not unsightly. 

Minerva. All this strewn rice, too, is waste- 
ful, unsightly, and quite improper in the sacred 
precincts of a church. I never knew it to be 
thrown even in the vestibule of a church before. 

Pan. I suppose it is what they call pagan. 

Minerva. I don't know why the rector per- 
mitted it. 

Pan. He couldn't help himself — sometimes 
they can't. It was that little faun-like brother of 
the bride that did it. [He leans over and picks 
up the head of the white rose and caresses itJ\ 
But what on earth are you doing here? 

Minerva. What, on earth, I always do, at- 
tend to the affairs of poor mortals and endeavor 
to direct them into profitable occupations. 

Pan. Oh, pooh! If I remember you had a 
hand in the destruction of Troy — if you call 
that a profitable occupation. 

Minerva. Wars are sometimes necessary so 
that the wise, the salutary, the safe, the logical, 
the lawful may triumph over the emotional, the 
mad, the poor. 

Pan [shrugging his shoulder s'\. Oh, if you 
want to call it that — and of course you do and 
will. For my part, I believe it is your safe and 
sane folks, your purely rational people who drive 
my natural creatures into hunger and madness and 
poverty and then beat them for being wild and 
unwise. 

Minerva. Mentality must triumph. After 
I have destroyed your poor, mad creatures I lead 
my victors into the peaceful occupations of art 
and commerce, especially commerce. 

34 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 



Pan. Your victors, humph! Don't forget 
that all people are at bottom my people. They 
never get away from that. And they all, my 
poor mad ones too, still propagate. By the way, 
talking about your occupations and art, if I re- 
member correctly, after you invented the flute, 
you happened to see your reflection when you were 
playing it, in the smooth lake below you and found 
your cheeks were bulged out and red and your 
eyes poppy, so you threw the flute away. Think 
of it, to throw away a flute ! But ugliness and 
beauty, like the sweet notes of the flute and your 
bulging cheeks, exist together in nature and so 
must be in art. 

Minerva. Not at all. Art chooses only the 
smooth and beautiful and the correct. 

Pan. Don't you think it! My little mad 
creatures today intrigue the artist much more in- 
tensely than all your well-mannered classics. But 
this is just like you, Minerva, getting me hot in 
an argument. 

Minerva [quietly]. I didn't get you into 
any argument. 

Pan. Oh, didn't you? You with your gen- 
eralities and placid conservatism, and correctness 
and unnatural theories ! Great Jove, you mad- 
den me 1 

Minerva [with the utmost indifference']. 
You are quite foolish to be maddened by any- 
thing. 

Pan. Oh, am I not? You drive me to des- 
peration. I, who never discuss or analyse ! I, 
who despise all your mental gymnastics ! But a 
god can't be with you two minutes without getting 

3S 



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into an argument with you. What I want to 
know is, what you are doing here? 

Minerva. What are you doing, Pan? 

Pan. There you are again ! That is just like 
you, too. Answering my question with a counter 
question, getting out of the truth by throwing the 
interest into the other side of the balance. Ask- 
ing me a question which you know very well PU 
answer. For I always answer. Why shouldn't 
I? Pve nothing to hide. I don't hide things. 
And I wouldn't hide anything if I had it to hide. 
Waugh ! How you make me fume ! 

Minerva. You are becoming Incoherent. 
You came here because? 

Pan. Oh, yes. Pm here on account of a 
girl, of course. You might know. Oh, she Is 
the sweetest, the dearest, the belovedest thing In 
the whole universe! 

Minerva. You are extravagant. Untutored 
nature Is extravagant. 

Pan. Don't you care. We have the vitality 
to afford It. 

Minerva. I deplore waste. 

Pan. I despise the niggardly. 

Minerva [with a just perceptible smile, and 
shrugging of the shoulders']. You'll be In an 
argument again before you know It. Where Is 
your girl? Why don't you follow her? 

Pan. Follow her? I can't. I don't want 
to. That's the Hades of It. [He gives a vicious 
kick at the strewn rice.'] 

Minerva [a trifle interested and taking a step 
towards him]. I never knew Pan to stop 

36 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 



at anything. What prevents you now? 

Pan. She's just married — that's the trouble 
— she's just gone off with her husband. Oh! 
[Stamping up and down and kicking at things 
violently/] I could swear by all the gods on 
high Olympus or in ancient Egypt! I could tear 
this sacred edifice stone from stone ! I could — 

Minerva. It doesn't do a bit of good for 
you to rage. 

Pan. Doesn't it, though? That's all you 
know about it, you with your civilization! It's 
better to be in a rage than in nothing at all. It's 
good to be in a rage if you can't be in something 
else. It is good to be in anger if you can't be 
in joy. 

Minerva \_her Up curling]. How absurdly 
emotional you are. 

Pan. Any one would be who was in love with 
such a wonderful girl. [With a deep sigh.] 
But I've just attended her wedding. She stood 
up all clad in white with a veil over her head and 
all bedecked with flowers like a lamb for the 
sacrifice — stood up before the high-priest and 
was given body and soul, for the soul goes with 
the body, to that stick in black. Didn't you sec 
the ceremony? 

Minerva. I did not enter. I am of a dif- 
ferent religion entirely but I respect their rites. 

Pan. Humph! I go anywhere. 

Minerva. And respect nothing. 

Pan. Oh, yes I do — the real things. 

Minerva. But this girl? The wedding has 
just taken place in here? 

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Pan. Yes. 

Minerva [with a subtle smile and approach- 
ing him]. Tell me about it. 

Pan. She is the most captivating girl I ever 
ran across. The nymphs aren't in it with her. 
I have been following her and making love to 
her and she has loved me — oh, her love was 
marvelous ! She is my true mate. She cares for 
all the things of mine. She climbed the moun- 
tains with me and wandered on the banks of 
brooks. We gathered violets together and she 
loved all the little live creatures and her hands 
stroked their furry backs. We sat on the sea 
cliffs and listened to the crash of the green waves. 
She gloried in storms and in disturbing starlight 
nights, in white clouds against the June blue, and 
in the rose and gold and apple-green and lavender 
of sunsets. I kissed her under the flowering dog- 
woods in the spring and under the scarlet maple in 
the autumn. \_He is silent a moment in the mem- 
ory. ] 

Minerva [recalling him]. Well? 

Pan. Oh, yes. I had only the universe to 
give her and her family wanted her to own four 
brick walls and have a gas furnace. 

Minerva [a little nervously]. But the young 
man she married? 

Pan. Oh, yes. Her family selected him be- 
cause he is a hard worker and would make her a 
good living and is altogether moral, and she ac- 
quiesced, that being the way of mortals and he a 
personable fellow. 

Minerva [forgetting herself]. Oh, he is ad- 
mirable ! 

38 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 



Pan [with a quick, divining look at her^. 
Ah, you know him? By the way what brought 
you to the wedding? I wonder! 

Minerva. Oh, why didn't you take her out 
of his way? Why didn't you marry her? 

Pan. Marry? I never spoke of marrying. 
I said she is my mate. 

Minerva. It's the same thing. 

Pan [fiercely]. It is not the same thing. 

Minerva. Oh, well, why quibble about 
words. Why didn't you mate with her, then? 

Pan. Perhaps I did. 

Minerva. But why didn't you take her away? 
Why didn't you get her out of his way? Can't 
you see, she will ruin his Hfe? 

Pan. Olympus and Hades! [Stamping.] 
Ruin his life? I wish something could! [He 
crumples up the head of the white rose, tears it 
into shreds and tosses it to the floor.] But noth- 
ing will ever turn him from the even tenor and 
the keen pursuit of business. He with his sleek 
ways and self-respect and self-control and hypoc- 
risy! It is he that will corrupt her life. 

Minerva. He would improve anything he 
touched. He will make her saner, more prac- 
tical, more efficient. But she will be a stone 
about his neck. 

Pan. Practical? [With a cry that is almost 
a wail.] He will squeeze all the sweet romance 
out of her. He will file off all the beautiful edges 
and press out all the wild loveliness until she Is 
as commonplace and durable and mechanical and 
horrible as he! 

Minerva. You are very unreasonable, Pan. 

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This youth who has won my admiration is straight 
and healthy and capable because he has always 
been self-controlled and lacked the passions that 
destroy so many young men. He never kissed a 
female in his life till his nuptual kiss. 
Pan. Oh, the fool! 

Minerva. He is strong and unenervated and 
will make a noble captain in case we go to war. 
Otherwise, he pursues his business diligently and 
makes much money by the manufacture of ladies' 
shoes. 

Pan [jwor/fw^]. Ladies' shoes! Ugly things 
unlike the human feet ! I'd rather have my hoof 
than those high-heeled, pointed-toed monstrosi- 
ties. The gods, Minerva, how you provoke me ! 
I would like to choke you ! [His fingers clutch- 
ing the air~\ — to choke the life out of you ! But 
It is impossible to kill you — your cold sanity will 
live as long as there is selfishness in the world! 
Manufacturer of ladies' shoes! 

[Just as he speaks footsteps are heard, they 
both draw back into the shadowy corners, 
and the bridegroom enters from the side. 
He is dressed in his smooth, correct wedding 
garments and is a clean, straight young man 
not fair not dark, not tall not small, not dis- 
tinctive in any way except that he has small 
sharp eyes close together. He looks about 
on the floor as if hunting for something and, 
not finding it, is about to go hurriedly 
through the swinging doors into the main 
body of the church when Minerva steps out 
with a deep sigh and detains him.^ 
Minerva. Ah ! 

40 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 



Bridegroom [with a violent start he turns, then 
faces her and bows low^ . Goddess ! 

Minerva. You could not leave me! You 
have returned to me! 

Bridegroom. I — I didn't know you were 
here. I came back to hunt for something. My 
— my wife dropped her handkerchief somewhere 
and she wouldn't let any one look for it but me. 

Minerva. Mortal females are silly and ex- 
acting. 

Bridegroom. But it is quite right for a wife 
to believe a husband can do things more 
thoroughly than any one else. 

Minerva [ignoring his remark^. Did you 
not know I would be here? Your reason must 
have told you I would. 

Bridegroom. Why, no. I figured it out that 
you would go straight back to Olympus. That 
would have been the sensible thing for you to 
do. 

Minerva. I will not give you up. 

Bridegroom. But I have a wife. Do you 
realise that I was just now married In there? 
[Stretching his hand out towards the church.^ 

Minerva. That makes no difference. 

Bridegroom. It does to me. I am morally 
opposed to promiscuity. [Pan gives vent to a 
Wild laugh. The Bridegroom starts in alarm,'\ 
What was that? 

Minerva. Nothing but a dog that got in 
through the negligence of the sexton. Oh, my 
wise youth [taking a long, graceful stride towards 
hivfi\ do you not love me? 

Bridegroom [looking cautiously to the right 

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and to the left~\. Goddess, I venerate you, I 
worship you, I follow out all your commands, you 
have made me what I am. I owe all my success 
to you. I could never have sold so many ladies' 
shoes if it had not been for you. The eighteen- 
button, Minerva trade-mark style has been enor- 
mously popular and I owe it all to you. Next 
year, if business continues good, I am going to 
put on the market a daring new style — different 
colors for rights and lefts; wine-color for the 
right, canary for the left, or green for the right, 
old rose for the left, for instance — the top notch 
of the extreme in artistic footgear. And if war 
comes, if it becomes necessary to kill the less prac- 
tical people, I shall enlist — provided of course 
you get me a commission and I can be an officer. 
I shouldn't care to be a common soldier. 

Minerva. Then, oh, my darling, stay with 
me! 

Bridegroom. But you yourself taught me that 
it is wise to mate, and of course I could not do 
so without legal and religious sanction. Society 
exacts that and quite properly so. I can not 
afford to Incur the disapproval of society. Why, 
the Minerva brand of ladies' high would become 
a drug on the market. Now I must go, I can't 
find the handkerchief and she is waiting in the 
limousine outside for me. \^He extends his 
white-gloved hand to Minerva to shake hands. '\ 

Minerva [^with her customary long graceful 
stride J approaches him, clasps him in her arms, en- 
folding him with her shield~\. Oh, no, no, no, 
do not go ! I can not lose you now I 

Bridegroom [struggling to free himself}. 

4^ 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 



But don't you see? I must go. There is no 
question about it. I am married. 

Minerva [holding him at arm^s lengthy her 
left hand with the shield on her arm, clutching 
his right shoulder, her right hand, with the spear, 
his left, and with lowered head — for with her 
helmet she is much taller than he — gazing deep 
into his eyes]. Oh, my darhng, I have never 
cared for a man before, but thou art the fruit of 
the ages of my cultivation of mankind in wisdom, 
thou art perfect in industry, self-controlled, pru- 
dent, judicious, pitiless, wholly unemotional, dis- 
creet, untiring, persistent. I love thee as the last 
and most finished seed of my sowing, a product 
that could never have existed before in the his- 
tory of man, not even in the wonderfully rational 
days of Rome. 

Bridegroom. Goddess, It Is Irrational for 
you to hold me. It is unreasonable and unUke you. 
I can not desert my wife now. She would sue 
me for divorce and an enormous alimony. It 
would all injure my business so that by the end 
of the year I should have to make an assignment. 
Let me go ! 

Minerva. But dost thou not understand, my 
darling? I am the goddess of the rational mind, 
I am without passions, and for the first time In 
history I find in thee today a man I can love, one 
ruled wholly by his reason, domestic, yes, but 
passionless. Ours would be the true eugenic mat- 
ing. 

Bridegroom. If you had proposed this be- 
fore — but now I am married. 

Minerva. Come with me I 

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Bridegroom. I must go on my wedding-trip. 
[He pulls away from her and as he does so, Pan, 
who has been drawn by curiosity out of the 
shadows, laughs. The Bridegroom jumps and 
looks at Pan in consternation.^ My God, who 
is that? Perhaps he is a reporter. Oh, good- 
ness, why did you get me into this? [To 
Minerva.^ 

Pan [^stepping out']. No, I am no reporter 
though I use a pipe [waving his Syrinx] and have 
done staff work [gesturing with his crook.] 
You'd better stay with her, my boy, she's almost 
gentle and affectionate when business permits. 

[The Bridegroom gives them each a swift, 
alarmed, secretive look, and runs out.] 

Minerva [striding swiftly to Pan and angrily 
addressing him] . Now see what you have done ! 
Why didn't you stay in the shadows? It has all 
been your fault. 

Pan. My fault, indeed! I don't wonder he 
ran away from you. You don't know how to 
make love to a man. 

Minerva. You spoiled it all by your unwar- 
ranted intrusion. 

Pan. Oh, garter snakes and hoptoads! 
Maybe Venus has got your man. 

Minerva. Not in the least. He is not that 
sort. [Loftily.] 

Pan. Anyhow, what do you care? He will 
be thinking of you and worshipping you even 
when he's lying with her, for you have the soul 
of him — what there is of it. It's all in his busi- 
ness. You can go to see him in his private office 
whenever you like. He won't be a bit changed. 

44 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 



But my little girl ! My poor little girl I Living 
with him will change her utterly. 

Minerva. He will be very good to her. 

Pan. He will not be a companion to her. 

Minerva. He will give her all that money 
can buy. 

Pan. He will not give her what money can 
not buy. 

Minerva. He will be wise and practical. 

Pan. Living with him w^ill gradually rub off 
all her bloom and dry up all the sap of her loveli- 
ness until she becomes unlovable. Oh, there is 
the terrible part of it — that she will not be lov- 
able and I shall not love her ! Oh, I shall lose 
my beautiful love of her! 

[A slight noise is heard, they both start back 
again into the shadows, and the Bride comes 
running in. She is too exquisite to be de- 
scribed. As she looks about, Pan emerges 
from the shadows.^ 

Bride \^her head thrown hack, a look of rap- 
ture on her face']. Ah, you! 

Pan [coming to her]. My little love, my 
nymph, my little blue dove with velvet eyes, my 
wood anemone ! 

Bride. He — my — my husband — forgive 
the word — told me there was some strange per- 
son In here, an Insane man In a leopard's skin, 
and I knew from his halting, silly description It 
must be you. You with your robe of the starry 
night. 

Pan. You came back to me, my little fair 
faun. 

Bride. Why, truly, I couldn't think of your 

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being here without running to you. [She ap- 
proaches him and strokes his shaggy hair.] 

Pan. Then you love me, heart's desire? 
[He takes her in his arms.~\ 

Bride. Oh, absolument ! [She snuggles up to 
him and lays her lovely head on his breast.] 

Pan. Then we will go at once to the hills. 

Bride. Oh, no, dearest, I can not go with 
you because I am married. I had to marry, of 
course, you can see that. 

Pan. No, May-apple, I can not see it. 

Bride. Oh, but it is quite plain, a girl must 
marry. That is quite plain. 

Pan. Must a girl marry a man when she is 
in love with a god? 

Bride. Why, yes, of course, if it is necessary. 

Pan. That is your accursed civilization, the 
world of Minerva. How I would rend it and 
tear it to shreds and trample it under my feet 
and scatter it to the four winds ! And I will one 
day, my little wood-pigeon. My day will come 
when I will triumph over the mediocre, the half- 
baked, the artificial, the false, when in a world 
of green and rose men will live with me in all their 
potent grace. 

Bride [leaning to him and closing her eyes]. 
Oh, my lover I My beautiful lover ! 

Pan. You are all mine! [He kisses her 
hotly.] 

Bride. I have never loved any one else. 
You have given me joy and loveliness. You are 
in my blood and in my nerves, and you alone. 
I tingle to the madness of the wind and thrill to 
the beauty of blossoms — and it is all you. When 

46 



AT THE CHURCH DOOR 



I hear music, it is you piping on the hillside and 
when I see dancing it is you among the apple 
orchards. It is always you. 

Pan [leaning over her^. You have ravished 

me, beloved. You are dearer than deity. Come ! 

[^A noise is heard outside. The Bride raises 

her head and listens.^ 
Bride. My husband is coming! I must go. 
\_She looks up at Pan, raising her shoulders to 
him and clasping him.~\ I love you! 

Pan. Oh, you, the little burnt offering on the 
fires of utility ! You, my little wild rose ! 
Bride. Oh, I love you! 

l^They kiss passionately. Then with a deep 
sigh he loosens his hold of her in a moment's 
weariness of passion and she quickly pulls 
away from him and runs. She disappears 
and Pan is left standing looking after her. 
For a space nothing is said, then Minerva 
comes out of the shadows.^ 
Minerva. Oh, you poor, blundering, inad- 
equate, impotent thing! [^Pan does not answer 
her nor even seem to hear her but stands as if in 
a trance.^ Oh, you wretched makeshift of a 
god! Why didn't you hold her? Why didn't 
you run away with her when you had the oppor- 
tunity? You have by your errors and awkward 
bungling ruined everything. 

Pan \^at last looking over at her~\. Not for 
you, Minerva. Your man will still worship you. 
But, oh, my beautiful girl! 

Minerva. It is almost pitiful — if anything 
could be pitiful — to see a creature like you, Pan. 
You are strong enough, very well developed phy- 

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sically, but you will never try to use your head. 
Why don't you learn to? Why don't you think 
and plan? Why don't you scheme? [With 
more anger than she has ever shown.^ By your 
silly passion and inexcusable blundering you have 
ruined everything. You have produced this per- 
fectly deplorable situation. 

Pan. Minerva, if I stay here I shall certainly 
try to kill you. I would smash your helmet into 
irredeemable junk so that you could never have 
it restored to fit your worthy head again, and I 
would shiver your spear into a thousand bits, and 
I would fasten your shield for a fender on a sub- 
way car. That for you, Minerva. But I go 
back to my flocks on the hillside, to my music and 
to my stars. You hold the stage. \He turns 
and goes out slowly. As he goes the curtain 
falls.] 



48 



HONEY 

In this play there has been no attempt to ex- 
press the dialect of the mountain people but only 
to suggest it. The characters have not been given 
names because they are all types or symbols, 
rather. The Child only, being the most distinct 
with sweetness and strength, is called by the name 
her mother used. 

characters 

The Man. 
The Woman. 
The Child, Honey. 
The Mill-Woman. 
The Mill-Girl. 
The Neighbor. 

ACT I 

[// is a Sunday afternoon of spring in a 
southern mountain mill city. The action takes 
place in the home of a family of cotton-mill 
workers, a rude little cabin in the beginning of 
the story kept closely shut up, not admitting 
any of the outside thrilling air of spring. 
The family consists of the father, the mother, 
and the little girl, who have recently moved in 
from the mountains. The cabin has but one 
room, is unplastered and very bare. At the 
middle of the back of the stage — the front of 

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the room — there is the outer door with a win- 
dow on either side of it. On one side of the 
room stands a worn-out cook-stove and on the 
other an old bed where the father and mother 
sleep. A sort of trundle-bed arrangement is 
at the foot of the bed, for the child. Some 
dull, worn clothes hang on nails against the 
wall near the bed — a man^s musty trousers^ a 
woman* s faded blue calico dress and other 
things. On the other side of the room be- 
tween the cook-stove and the window is a cheap 
old safe with perforated tin front. Toward 
the center of the room but nearer the stove 
stands a plain deal kitchen table where the 
family eat. Hanging up against the window 
frame on this same side of the room is a small 
cracked mirror and just below it is nailed a 
paper-box as a receptacle for comb and brush. 
Below this, on a chair, is a bucket of water and 
a tin dipper. On a shelf behind the stove is a 
coal-oil lamp. A few geraniums in tin tomato 
cans are on the window-sills. The bare floor 
is scrubbed spotlessly clean. There is a strip 
of frayed carpet by the bed. A disjointed, 
squeaking rocking-chair and two or three other 
rickety chairs stand about. The rocking-chair 
is in front of the stove, placed so that its oc- 
cupant can be near the warmth and at the same 
time be able to look out of the window. In 
it sits a man, tall, big, bony, with a full, long, 
beard, and smoking a pipe. He sits there 
silently smoking for a few minutes, gazing at 
the rather feeble fire in the cook-stove, once or 
twice he slowly looks out of the window. 

50 



HONEY 

Finally a slight noise is heard outside and a 
woman and little girl enter. The woman might 
have been pretty a few years before. She is 
worn-looking now and old-looking, as the 
mountain women become while still young, but 
even hard work has not quite dulled the wistful- 
ness in her blue eyes. The girl is a slight 
young thing, very tall for her age but a child 
still, with eyes blue as her mountain sky, deli- 
cate skin, and that enchanting thinness of youth 
which is like the austere first sweetness of 
spring. There is personality in her, new to 
the world as she is. She has a captivating 
loveliness both in her physical beauty and in 
the wistfulness, tenderness, and elan of her 
look. She is rare, exquisite. She carries a 
hunch of violets in her hand. When they come 
in the woman slowly and rather tiredly takes 
of her wraps and hangs them up and nothing 
is said for a few minutes. The girl goes to 
the safe, gets down a broken old tea-cup which 
she fills with water from the pail, puts the vio- 
lets in, placing them on the table. She touches 
the blossoms gently, fondling them with her 
fingers, stands off and looks at them and finally 
begins dancing about quietly and singing to her- 
self.'] 

Man \^crustily and without looking up at them 
at aW]. You liked to stay out all night. You 
been galivanting ever since dinner-time. 

\_The girl shrinks and looks at the Man in fear, 
then goes on with her dancing and singing to 
herself, but very quietly.] 

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Woman. It ain't late, pap. It ain't near sun- 
down. 

Man. Sun don't go down early now. It's 
spring. But it's right cold all the same. I don't see 
what you want to be fooling along outdoors for. 

Woman. Feels good to be out. 

Man. That's what you always say. You al- 
ways was queer. Always mooning round out- 
doors up in the mountains. 

Woman. Ain't much outdoors in town, no- 
how, not real outdoors. So me and Honey 
walked real far out into something like the country 
where there was a road soft to your foot and 
springy, and a little branch. There ain't no out- 
doors in town, nohow. Nothing but houses and 
factories and hard streets, fences and bricks and 
mud. A person misses the tall trees standing 
close and big, with all their leaves still in each 
other's shade, and all the nice bushes and under- 
brush and mossy rocks and wild-flowers and the 
birds and the little grassy branch picking its way 
down through the ravine to the valley. 

Man [sneerin^lyl. I reckon you miss the 
snakes, too. Rattlers. [Suddenly and very 
angrily to the little girL~\ Can't you stop that 
cavorting round? 

\_She starts as if from a blow and goes over to 
her low bed, sitting down on it, from which 
lowly position she closely watches her father 
and mother."] 

Woman. Now, pap, no rattle-snake never bit 
me nor you, neither. I guess if a person has got 
sense in his head he can keep clear of a rattler. 

Man. Shut that door, can't you? 

52 



HONEY 

Woman. Air smells so good, pap. [Shut- 
ting the door.^ 

Man. Then stay out in it all the time. You 
know well enough that just last summer a rattler 
bit Bill Davis so as he swelled up and turned 
black afore he died. 

Woman. Yes, and I know that Bill Davis 
was drunk all the time so as he couldn't get out of 
the way of a rattler nor even a cow. Most like 
he laid down in the nest of one for a sleep. 
Whisky's good for a rattle-snake bite and so the 
pizen oughtn't to have had no effect on Bill for 
his skin was certainly tight with whisky. 

Man. You have to take whisky after the bite, 
you fool. 

Woman. Bill made the mistake of taking his 
afore. 

Man. When you going to get supper? 

Woman. Be you hungry aready? 

Man. No, but I'm tired of hearing you 
talk. 

Woman. I can get it right away, pappy. 

Man. This stove don't burn good. You 
ought to fix it. 

Woman. I was just waiting to get supper 
because one of the mill hands said she was com- 
ing in. 

Man [with some annoyance']. Well, if she's 
coming, I reckon I'll go out for a spell. 

[There is a knock at the door.~\ 

Woman. That's likely her now. [She goes 
to the door, opens it, and a woman enters. She 
is very young but pale and exceedingly thin and 
worn-looking, with large, pitiful staring grey 

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eyes. She wears a shawl over her head.^ 
Howdy. Walk right in. 

[The Man settles down in his chair again and 
smokes silently and rather sullenly without 
looking at the woman. The Mill-woman 
does not speak at first but with a hunted 
furtive glance looks all about the room.^ 
Mill-Woman. Ain't you got no children? 
Woman. Just my little daughter here. 
\_Smiling and pointing to the girl who sits on her 
bed watching them.^ 

Mill-Woman. She's a big girl, not a child 
no more. She must be as old as I was when I 
got married. 

Woman. She's well-growed and tall but she's 
young. She's just my little daughter, my Honey. 
Mill-Woman. Didn't you have no others? 
Woman. Yes, I did. Won't you set down? 
\_She places a chair for her visitor, herself taking 
the other rickety one.^ Yes, I had three others, 
two of them afore her and one after her up in 
the mountains. But they all died. 

Mill-Woman. It would be handy for you 
now if they was alive. They could all work in 
the mill. Three more — that would bring in 
right smart of money. But you had a small fam- 
ily, didn't you ? Only four. 

[Honey gets up and goes over to the pail of 

water, picks up the dipper and takes a drink, 

after which she goes back to her low seat.'\ 

Woman. No, I didn't have my children fast 

as some. They wasn't sickly, either, they was 

nice healthy babies, but the fever carried them 

off, pore little things. 

54 



HONEY 

[The Alan pays no attention to them but sits 
doggedly smoking with his back to them.^ 
Mill-Woman. They're a lot of trouble. 
They make you sick coming, they pull you down 
whilst they're nursing, then they're sick and cross, 
and you don't get your strength back between 
them. For all the little money they bring in at 
the mills, they don't pay, nohow. But you can't 
help it. That's what a woman's got to bear. 
\_The Man gets up, knocks the ashes out of his 
pipe into the grate of the stove with slow, 
lazy movements, and still paying no atten- 
tion to them but keeping his back to them, 
he takes his hat down from the nail where 
it hangs by the door and goes out. While 
he is doing this the women talk o«.] 
Woman. You're right young, ain't you? 
How many children have you got? 

Mill-Woman [furtively watching the Man 
and speaking slowly and interruptedly because of 
her attention to him']. Yes, ma'am. But I got 
four aready, three living and one dead. I liked 
to cried my eyes out when it died, but it wasn't 
no use. [The Man bangs the door shut behind 
him. Honey sits on her bed and watches every 
movement of her father till he goes out. Then 
she gets up, goes to the table and pets the violets 
again, and gradually she begins dancing about, 
swaying from side to side, singing to herself, her 
eyes radiant.] Was that your old man? 
Woman. Yes. 

Mill-Woman. I reckon he don't like woman 
talk. 

Woman. I reckon not. 

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MiLL-WOiMAN. Men don't. Well, as I was 
a-saylng, that baby died and I liked to cried my 
eyes out but it was a puny, weakly little thing and 
maybe it couldn't have worked in the mills, no- 
how, and it's just as well it went. The Lord, he 
knows best. My oldest can work a little now in 
the mill. The others ain't old enough to work 
nor to take care of one another and when I leave 
them to home I am worried to death for fear 
they'll set fire to the house or fall down the cis- 
tern. 

Woman. Can't their father take care of 
them? 

Mill-Woman. My old man? Not him. 
He don't want to be tied down. Sometimes he 
shuts them up in the house and then they cry if 
they're not asleep, and sometimes he just leaves 
them loose. Then's when I think of the cistern. 
\_Honey has been quite joyous, sings aloud a 

quaint country tune and dances gayly.'] 
Woman. Honey, child, you're making a lot 
of noise. [To the Mill-Woman.'] Oh, but you 
oughtn't to do that. I'm awful sorry. I won- 
der if you could bring them here and shut them 
up. But I reckon my old man wouldn't allow it. 
\_Honey still dances quite wildly but lowers her 
voice in her singing. There is a knock at 
the door. The Woman gets up and opens 
it to another woman. This woman is 
stronger and healthier than the other two. 
She is not tall but is heavily built with big 
hones and broad shoulders. The red blood 
shows in her coarse skin and her dark eyes 

56 



HONEY 

have a shine to them. When she comes in 
Honey stops her dancing instantly^ watches 
the woman strangely and goes to sit down 
on her low bed. As the conversation pro- 
ceeds she takes out a big handkerchief and 
works at it making a rabbit of it but all the 
while quietly watching the woman and never 
a word of their talk is lost upon her.'] 
Neighbor. Well, what you two jawing 
about? 

Woman. We wasn't jawing. She was just 
telling me about her baby dying and all her hard- 
ships. 

Neighbor. Oh, she always tells everybody 
that. I guess she don't have no more trouble 
than other people. \^She pulls the Man's rock- 
ing-chair about and sits down in it. The Woman 
takes her former chair now between the others.] 
She's young and having her children and thinks 
nobody has got as bad times as her. If her old 
man died like mine did last year, she'd know what 
real trouble was. 

Mill- Woman. I 'spose I'd get along about 
as well without him as with. He don't do no 
work. I can't see but what you get along as well 
without yours as with. He didn't do no work. 
The men don't none of them do no work. 

Neighbor. There ain't no men's work in the 
mills for them to do, that's why. 

Mill-Woman. Seems as if they could find 
some kind of work somewheres else. 

Neighbor. What's the use when the chil- 
dren's wages is enough to live on? 

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Mill- Woman. But the women and children 
have to work so hard. Your own children are 
all puny pale little critters. 

Neighbor. You talk most onreligious. 

Mill- Woman [displaying more spirit than 
could have been expected of her'\. Me onre- 
ligious! I'm the most religiousest woman ever 
you knowed! Why, when I got religion I got it 
so hard I carried on till I fell in a faint and it 
took them three hours to bring me to. Me on- 
religious I 

Neighbor. Well, the Lord's plan is all right, 
ain't it? Seems to fit in with the mill-owner's 
plan, anyways. He's ruling our lives, ain't he? 
Him and the mill-owners. It ain't right to try to 
outface your betters. What's the difference if 
the men don't work? Every female needs a man 
and it seems as if it took a widow to tell you so. 

Mill-Woman [sighing wearily^. I don't feel 
as if I needed a man so much as some rest. [To 
the Woman.'] How long you been a-working in 
the mill ? 

Woman. Just a week. We come to town a 
week ago. 

Neighbor. Where did you come from? 

Woman. Up in the mountains. 

Neighbor. It must be awful lonesome away 
up there. 

Woman. Me and Honey weren't never lone- 
some. 

Mill- Woman. How do you stand the work 
in the mills ? 

Woman. Oh, it's dreadful long and tire- 
some. Seems as if my back would never get used 

58 



HONEY 

to it and I can't bear to see my little girl get so 
tired. 

Mill-Woman. All the children gets tired. 

Woman. It hurts me to see them. 

Neighbor. Oh, shucks I You're mighty 
chicken-hearted. Anyway you can't help it. It 
ain't for us to try and change the world. The 
rich men as owns the mills knows what they want 
and they're going to have it. Children has got 
to work in the mills. That's what life is. [She 
rocks back and forth with great enjoyment.^ 
How does the old man like town? 

Woman. I guess he likes it well enough. He 
wanted to come. 

Neighbor [laughing in high glee~\. I bet he 
did! 

Woman [innocently^. And Honey wanted to 
come. 

Neighbor. Well, I can see what he wanted 
to come for — to put you two in the mills and let 
you earn his bacon and baccy — but I can't see for 
the life of me what she wanted to come for unless 
she's a plumb idjit. 

Woman [with spirit^. It's just because she 
ain't a plumb idjit that she wanted to come. 
Honey's got some notion in her head about lam- 
ing. I don't just know what. Tell them. Honey, 
about the Teacher. 

Honey [speaking slowly and raptly as if re- 
membering a vision']. It was one day up in the 
mountains the teacher came, last spring — this 
time. There was violets and the new grass smell- 
ing cold and fresh and the little new leaves all 
starting to come out and a mocking-bird was sing- 

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ing. The Teacher came. It was like a angel's 
visit. And I heard tell how you can get larning. 
How girls can larn to be strong and clean and 
take care of theirselves, how they can larn to do 
all kind of useful things and help others to be 
happy. The Teacher told me all that. 

Neighbor. Well, you poor fool, you ain't ex- 
pecting to meet up with a teacher and be asso- 
ciating with such as them down here? 

Honey. No — no — only I want to get some 
larning and maybe I could if I could find the 
Teacher. The Teacher would help me. 

Neighbor \_laughing her unpleasant harsh 
laugh~\. Help you nothing! Rich folks don't 
want to help you. All they want is to get work 
out of you, like they do out of their machines. 

Honey. The Teacher was like a angel. 

Neighbor. Well, you'll never hear tell of 
your angel again. 

Honey. Maybe I will — maybe I will. 

Neighbor. Maybe you won't — you little 
fool. 

Woman. I wisht you wouldn't talk that way 
to her. 

Neighbor [angrily']. Oh, you do, do you? 
Well, I'll talk any way I please. I don't have to 
ast you how to talk. [Growing more angry.] 
For such as you to be insulting me, to be telling 
me how to talk polite ! You pore mountain white 
trash! You pore miserable thing, common as 
pig-tracks ! 

Woman [flushing and getting to her feet with 
rising anger]. You ain't got no call to talk that 
way to me. 

60 



HONEY 

Neighbor. I guess I can talk any way I want 
to. I don't have to be told how by the likes of 
you — such trash, ain't fit to be associating with. 
I don't know why I came in here. I know how 
to talk better than you. 

Woman. Maybe you know how but you 
don't know where, and you can't do it in my 
house. 

Neighbor Your house! [^She rises and 
stands glowering, her hands on her hips.^ Awful 
fine house you got! I guess you ain't got enough 
money hardly to pay your rent even. Your 
house! If it's anybody's house it's the old man's 
house and I guess he wouldn't be turning me out. 
You — you darst to be insulting me ! [She 
clenches her fist and shakes it at the Woman as 
if she were going to strike her. Honey rushes 
up, throwing her arms about her mother as if to 
protect her,^ 

Honey. Mammy, mammy, don't you fight 
her! 

Mill-Woman. There, there. [To the 
PFoman.l Don't you pay no attention to her. 
She's always fussing with somebody. Don't you 
let her fight you. 

Honey. Mammy, dear, please don't do noth- 
ing! Please don't fight her! 

Woman [as if remembering herself]. Fight? 
Me? No, of course I won't fight. I — I am 
ashamed of myself for showing my temper so. 
I'm awful sorry. 

Neighbor [with an ugly triumphant smile]. 
Well, if you're apologizing, I reckon I'll have to 
accept of your apology. But you have got a 

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awful quick temper and sharp tongue. It's all 
on account of your spilt child. 

Mill-Woman. I guess I'll be going. I got 
to get supper for him. [She rises and puts her 
shawl over her head,] 

Neighbor. I guess I'll go, too. I didn't 
mean to stay when I come. 

Mill-Woman [noticing the flowers on the 
table]. Been to the woods? 

Woman. Yes, I get kind of homesick for the 
mountains. We went for a walk today, me and 
Honey. 

Neighbor. You'll get all that taken out of 
your hide after you've been in town a while. 
[She laughs her cackling, derisive laugh and 
touches the violets roughly. Honey jumps up, 
runs over to the table and catches away the cup 
of flowers, not angrily but as if she were protect- 
ing something precious. The Neighbor looks at 
her and throws back her head, laughing amusedly 
and tauntingly. Honey retreats to a corner 
where she watches the woman with fear and 
trouble in her eyes.] 

Neighbor. Hoity, toity! She's got a tem- 
per, too, a bad, bad temper of her own. 

Woman [paying no attention to this]. Well, 
come again. 

Mill- Woman. There ain't no time for visit- 
ing. After a person has worked all day they 
want to rest. I get so tired. 

Neighbor. Oh, law! You don't get tireder 
than the rest of us. [They go.] 

[Honey rushes up to her mother, throws her 
arms around her and they kiss. Then she 

62 



HONEY 

hops and dances about the room singing in a 

little high voice ^ " Violets, violets, pretty, 

pretty violets — my own violets — pretty, 

pretty violets."] 

Woman. Now, child, I'm going to see if I 

can find your pap. I don't just like where he 

goes. He goes to a saloon, my dear, and the 

men drink too much. I'll be back soon. You 

put the kettle on and start supper. 

Honey. Mammy, I hate that neighbor 
woman. She lied about you. You ain't bad- 
tempered and you're good to everybody. 

Woman [smiling~\. I'm awful thankful you 
kept me from striking her, lambie. I don't know 
what I was thinking of but I almost forgot my- 
self. I never did such a thing before. But she's 
our neighbor and she don't mean no harm. 

Honey. Yes, she does. She does mean 
harm, mammy. She's mean and I hate her. 
But, oh, I love you, mammy, my own mammy. 
[She clings to her mother and kisses her.'\ 

Woman. I got to go now. Honey, child. 
You start to fix supper. 

\_The Woman throws a shawl over her head 

and goes out. Honey dips water out of the 

bucket into the tea-kettle and places it on the 

stove, after which she goes to the safe and 

looks inside. Then she opens the door and 

stands looking out. A girl comes along the 

street and stops.'] 

Mill-Girl [looking in]. Howdy. [She is 

rather pretty and wild-looking with a sort of 

vixenish vivacity unusual among the cotton-mill 

workers. She is older but no taller than the other 

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child.] Are you all by yourself? [Peering 
curiously about the room.] 

Honey. Yes. Come in. 

Mill-Girl [entering]. Your pap and mam 
gone out? 

Honey. Yes. I'm starting supper. 

Mill-Girl. Oh, supper ! I got to go home 
and get supper, too. Do you know how to dance 
the monkey-dance? 

Honey. No. Do you? 

Mill-Girl. You bet I do. Want I should 
show you? [She dances the monkey-dance, a 
strange figure known to the mountaineers. 
Honey is spell-hound watching her.] 

Mill-Girl. Don't you want to try? 

Honey. Oh, yes, but I'm afraid I couldn't. 

Mill-Girl. You do it this way. \_She goes 
on with the weird figure. Honey starts in, too, 
dancing quite wildly but not at all the monkey- 
dance.] 

Mill-Girl [laughing. Honey laughs, too, in 
very glee]. Shucks! You don't do it right, but 
you could larn. My mam's sick. Anyhow you 
don't have to get supper for a big family. [She 
stops dancing.] 

Honey. Have you got lots of brothers and 
sisters ? 

Mill-Girl. You bet I have. Five younger 
than me and we're all working In the mills and 
giving our wages regular to pap. I'm getting 
tired of it, I am. Giving up all my wages to 
him, and I'm going to do something to stop It. 

Honey. What are you going to do ? 

Mill-Girl. Get married. 

64 



HONEY 

Honey. You? Aready? 
Mill-Girl. You bet I am. [^She tosses her 
head and dances again.'] Why don't you, too? 
Any boy'U do it for you. Then you can keep 
your wages. A married woman gets to keep 
her wages, she does. \^lVith great gusto.] She 
don't have to give it to her pap. Come along and 
do it, too. 

Honey. But I don't want to get married. 
Mill-Girl. Well, after you've worked a 
while longer and give up all your wages week 
after week to your pap, you'll think different. 

Honey. I want some larning. I want to go 
to school. 

Mill-Girl. School? Shucks! That ain't 
going to do you no good. Anyhow, you can't. 
You got to work and make money. If you get 
married you can keep the money. The girls all 
does it. I'm going to next week, maybe sooner. 
S'long. 

\_The Mill-Girl goes out and Honey shuts the 
door and begins her preparations for sup- 
per. She goes to the safe and brings out a 
loaf of bready some knives and forks, etc., 
which she places on the table, and begins to 
cut the bread when there is a knock at the 
door. She goes to the door, opens it and 
starts back with wide-eyed delight and as- 
tonishment. At first she can not speak and 
when she does her voice is tense with ex- 
citement.] 
Honey. You are — you are — the Teacher! 
Oh, I'd know you anywheres ! You was stand- 
ing by the rhodedendron bushes that day last 

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spring with all the light on your hair behind, and 
the sun had just went down over the mountains 
and the clouds was painted — it's different here, 
but you're the same. You'd be always the same 
anywheres. . . . Oh, yes, we come down here to 
live — my pap wanted to and I am going to 
try to get some larning. . . . Oh, yes, I work in 
the mill. . . . You're hunting that girl? . . . 
No, she ain't here now, she was here just a min- 
ute ago but she's went. . . . Oh, yes, I know 
her. . . . Oh, yes, she said she was going to get 
married next week. Ain't that funny? . . . Yes, 
I can tell you where she lives. You go down this 
street till you come to a big house, a great big 
empty house with windows, that's the cotton-mill. 
And then you cross the street and keep on till 
you come to two, no three, little houses, and she 
lives in the last one. . . . Yes, you'll find her, for 
she just went home to get supper for her folks. 
\_After a longer 'pause and as if listening very in- 
tensely.'] Oh — Oh, if ever I need you I should 
come to you? [/w the utmost radiance.] You 
tell me that? Oh, I promise I'll come! . . . 
Oh! \_She impulsively steps outside the door as 
if called to receive something, hut scarcely goes 
beyond sight, her shoulders and flowing hair show- 
ing at the side of the door. When she draws 
hack, she holds in her hands a glorious pink rose.] 
Oh, you give me this to remember by? . . . Oh, 
I'll never forget! ... I couldn't never forget. 
I couldn't never forget nohow. . . . And when 
I need you, I'll come to you? . . . Oh, I'll come 
— shorely I'll come ! [^She is left standing in 
the doorway, the rose in her hand, gazing out 

66 



HONEY 

raptly into the fading light as after a vanishing 
vision. Curtain to the first act.^ 



ACT II 

\_It is summer, a week-day, after supper, hut 
still there is daylight. The room is the same 
but has the look of having been lived in longer. 
The Man is sitting in the rocking-chair, as be- 
fore, smoking his pipe. The Woman is very 
sick, terribly thin and white, half-reclining in 
bed, half propped up. She is not far from 
death. Honey is washing the supper dishes. 
A change has come in her, hardly perceptible 
but to be detected in her watchful eyes and wist- 
ful mouth. She calls out to her mother.'] 

Honey. Are you through with your plate? 

Woman. Yes, I'm through. 

[^Honey goes over to her mother's bed to get 
the plate which is almost untouched.] 

Honey. Why, you didn't eat nothing at all. 
[Solicitously.] 

Woman. Oh, yes, I did, Honey. I ate a lot. 

Honey [^examining the plate and looking anx- 
ious and disappointed]. I don't know what to 
do with you, you naughty mammy. You don't 
eat nothing. 

Woman. Oh, yes, I do. Honey. I eat more 
and more every day. 

Man. Folks laying in bed don't need to eat 
much. 

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Honey \_gives him a reproachful look and then 
speaks to her mother^. Can't you try to eat just 
a little more? 

Woman. I couldn't swallow another bite. 
You finish up what little I left. [She is very 
weak and speaks gaspingly.^ 

Honey. No, I've had plenty. I'll keep it for 
breakfast. 

Woman. You'd better get the things ready 
tonight for your pap's breakfast so you won't 
have to hurry so in the morning afore you get off 
to work. 

Man [stretching and yawning, he knocks the 
ashes out of his pipe and gets up]. Well, I guess 
I'll step out for a spell. 

[The others say nothing. He takes his hat 
from the nail where it hangs and goes out. 
Honey proceeds with her work.'] 

Woman. I wish you'd finish what I left, 
Honey. I'm afraid you're denying of yourself. 

Honey. Oh, no, I ain't. I'm eating lots. 
Only I ain't so awful hungry. 

Woman. Oh, I can see how things are, 
Honey, you pore little lamb, though I am in bed. 
You're just starving yourself so as to save for 
your pappy and me. My savings is almost gone 
and If I don't get up and about soon I don't know 
what's to become of us. It don't seem as if you 
could make enough for us all. 

Honey [stopping her work and standing still 
earnestly with her dish-towel in her hand]. 
Mammy, couldn't pap work some? Don't men 
never work? 

Woman. Yes, of course he'll try to find some 

68 



HONEY 

work. Men work some places but here in the 
mills they don't use men much. It's mostly 
women and children. It ain't so easy for men to 
find work. You mustn't think ill of your pap. 
[There is a knock at the door and Honey 
opens it, admitting the Mill-JVoman, who, if 
possible, looks even paler and thinner than 
before. She carries a little tin bucket.^ 
Mill-Woman. Howdy? How you feeling 
tonight? My, but you do look dreadful sick! I 
brought you a little stew. We had it for supper 
today and I thought maybe it would seem tasty 
to you. 

Woman. You're mighty kind. I hadn't 
quite finished the soup you brought yesterday. I 
hope you ain't robbing your own family. 

Mill-Woman. Oh, they get plenty. I see 
that the children ain't starved and you can count 
on him helping hisself. W^on't you eat some stew 
now? It's hot. 

Woman. I just had a great big supper and I 
couldn't swallow another bite. Thank you just 
the same. I'll eat it tomorrow. 

[There is a knock at the door, then the knob 
turns and the Neighbor walks in. It is evi- 
dent she is not welcome to any of them. 
The Woman makes an effort to control her 
feelings and tries to smile a welcome, the 
Mill-Woman looks iincofufortably patient as 
one does in going through an unpleasant nec- 
essary experience, but Honey stiffens back 
and for the first time a secretive almost hard 
look comes into her wonderful blue eyes.~\ 
Neighbor. I see her come in, so I thought 

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I'd run over and see how you was. My, but you 
do look awful! You're nothing but skin and 
bone. I guess you're getting worse fast, ain't 
you? I just walked in to save you the trouble of 
opening the door. [Looking round the room>~\ 
The old man ain't home, is he? 

Woman. No, he went out. 

Neighbor. I reckon he gets tired of a sick 
woman in the house all the time. Men like 
women to be healthy. I don't know as I blame 
them. \^She smiles insinuatingly. Honey whirls 
the rocking-chair about and pulls the Mill-Woman 
by the sleeve over to it.^ 

Honey. You sit here. 

Woman. I was healthy up In the mountains. 

Mill-Woman. Maybe the mills makes you 
sick. \_She goes to the bed of the sick Woman 
and the Neighbor takes the rocking-chair despite 
the efforts of Honey to prevent it.~\ Cotton gets 
in some folks' lungs and makes them feel sick. 

Woman. I don't know. Only I felt all right 
up there in the clean air. And I wisht I was back 
home. I do get dreadful lonesome for the moun- 
tains. If I could only smell the piny woods. If 
I could only see the clouds go by over the other 
mountains. 

Neighbor. I reckon the old man wouldn't 
go back. 

Mill-Woman. Seems as if it was all a mis- 
take, your coming down here. It's made you 
sick, and your girl can't get the schooling she's 
hankering after. Up in the mountain country 
she could get some but here she can't get none, 
because she's got to work all the time. And as 

70 



HONEY 

for your old man, he could have smoked and 
chewed up in the mountains same as down here, 
I guess. 

Woman. They was set on coming but it was 
me made it so as we could come. He couldn't 
have, if I hadn't managed. I thought to better 
things for my little daughter but I just fell sick 
and botched it. 

Mill-Woman. That's what women do when 
they try to fix things and rule. Like me. I 
planned to get married so as to save my wages 
for myself and not have to pay them to my pap. 
And I just had babies one after another and had 
to work harder than ever and the wages slipping 
through my fingers into everybody's mouth. 
Women is just pore forlorn critters, tools in the 
hands of the Lord. They hadn't ought never to 
try to rule things. The Lord, he means them to 
suflfer for the sin of Eve. And if they try to 
escape their punishment, they just make things a 
heap worse for theirselves. 

Honey [timid but determined to ask the ques- 
tion^. If women is punished for Eve's sin, why 
shouldn't men be, too? 

Mill-Woman [solemnly^. It's all on ac- 
count of their sect, women being women and men 
being men. Eve was a woman. 

Honey. Yes, but ain't men as much the chil- 
dren of Eve as women are? 

Neighbor [laughing derisively^. Would you 
listen to that now? A silly girl trying to argufy! 
You shut up and leave that to men and preachers. 

[There is another knock at the door and Honey 
goes to open /7.] 

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Woman [nervously to the Neighbor^. Don't 
you talk that way to her. She ain't used to hard 
talk, and she ain't trying to argufy. 

Mill-Girl [Entering^. Howdy. I just 
came to ast how your mam is. 

Honey. Oh, she's better. Come on in. 

\_The Mill-Girl comes in and the others greet 
her. She seems subdued and quite unlike 
her former self-assertive^ lusty self.~\ 

Mill-Woman. How are you feeling these 
days? You don't look well. 

Mill-Girl. I don't feel good. My back 
aches fit to kill me working in the mill. 

Neighbor [laughing uproariously']. Well, I 
reckon everybody knows what that means, you 
young fool. You're married now, ain't you? 

Honey [standing in the middle of the room 
and looking deeply troubled]. You mustn't call 
her names. 

Neighbor [laughing more]. Oh, ho, ho, you, 
too, to be telling I mustn't ! Oh, ho, ho, ho ! 

Mill-Woman [to the Neighbor], You must 
be feeling awful merry tonight, ain't you? Well, 
I'll be going. I got to get the children to bed 
and I'm so tired myself I just want to fall in with- 
out taking my clothes off. 

Mill-Girl. I'll be going with you, I just 
dropped in [to Honey] to ast how your mam 
was and I thought I'd help you with the supper 
dishes but I see you've got them done. 

Honey [following the Mill-Girl to one side of 
the room and speaking low. The others do not 
seem to notice them.] You did see the Teacher 



that day didn't you ? 



72 



HONEY 

Mill-Girl. Oh, yes, the Teacher was on my 
track hunting me here to your house and then to 
my house, making me promise not to get married 
for a year. I promised, but I fooled everybody, 
you bet. \_Laughing with stupid egotism.^ I 
promised all right and then I got married the 
very next day. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ain't I the smart 
one? 

Honey. You didn't lie to the Teacher? 
\_Horrified.^ 

Mill-Girl. Why, yes, of course I did. 
When people pin you down and make you prom- 
ise, you got to lie. 

Honey. Have you ever seen the Teacher 
since? 

Mill-Girl. No. I guess it got noised round 
what I done and I guess I'll be let alone after 
this. 

Honey. Seems as if the Teacher was a hun- 
dred million miles away. But I got to get it 
somehow, my larning. Soon as my mammy's 
well again, I'm going to. I got to take care of 
her while she's sick and as soon as she's well again 
I'll have to find some way. I think I got to see 
the Teacher again. I know I'm going to. \^Her 
face lights up beautifully with the thought. ~\ 

Mill-Girl [returning to the others'^. Well, 
I don't know as I want to see anybody ever again. 
I ain't hankering after nothing. I'm tired. I'm 
tired of living. But I did fool them all — that 
was some fun. \_With a silly, triumphant grin.~\ 

Mill- Woman. You done what I done, what 
we all done, tried to be smart and fool God, and 
you didn't do nothing but fool yourself. You're 

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just a pore critter, too, like us all, and you'll soon 
be thin and old. Honey, too, her time'll come. 
She's growed up now, she'll get thin and old, 
too. 

Mill-Girl. I don't know what you mean. I 
didn't try to fool God. And Honey's different. 
She's changed so lately. 

[The Neighbor turns about and looks at Honey 
sharply.'] 

Mill-Woman. Folks change and get old. 
They change and wither as the grass withereth, so 
the Holy Scripture says. 

Neighbor [looking about the room]. How 
soon are you expecting of the old man back? 

Woman. Oh, he mostly don't get home till 
late. 

Neighbor [yawning]. Well, I guess I'll be 
going, too. I'm kind of sleepy myself. 

Mill-Woman. I hope you'll be feeling bet- 
ter in the morning. 

[They all go out, the Neighbor first without 
the ceremony of saying good-night, the Mill- 
Girl lingering.] 

Mill-Girl. Your mam's dreadful sick, ain't 
she ? I hope she gets well. 

Honey. Oh, yes, she's going to. [She 
closes the door after them. It has been growing 
darker.] I guess I'll make a light. [She gets 
the little coal-oil lamp down from the shelf against 
the wall back of the stove, lights it and places it 
on the table.] 

Woman. The days are so long, now — 
about the longest in the year likely. It's light 
till bedtime. Be you tired, Honey? 

74 



HONEY 

Honey. Oh, no, I never get tired. [Briskly.'\ 
I'm so strong and healthy. 

Woman \_smUing'\. I don't guess you're tell- 
ing the truth, Honey. Working in the mills 
makes everybody tired. \_With a sigh.'\ It kills 
some people. 

Honey. Will you drink a cup of milk afore 
you go to sleep ? 

Woman. You take such good care of your 
old mammy, don't you, Honey? You've growed 
so since we come to town down from the moun- 
tains, and got to be so wise and helpful. S^Gaz- 
ing at Honey long and silently.'\ The Mill-Girl 
was right when she said as how you'd changed. 
You're different somehow, lambkin, since I took 
sick, I don't know how exactly, only I know you're 
older and different, somehow. It's you that takes 
care of your mammy now stead of mammy tak- 
ing care of her little girl. Only you'll never be 
old and faded and thin — not you. [After a 
pause.'] No, I don't want no milk, dearie, I 
ain't thirsty. And I don't want to go to sleep 
right away for a little while. All I want is just 
to have my little girl to talk to. I don't see much 
of my little girl nowadays. She just works so 
hard all day and when night time comes we're so 
tired we go to sleep right after supper. 

Honey [talking as she shuts the doors of the 
safe, turns up the wick of the lamp and goes over 
to her mother's bed~\. I could stay up all night 
talking to my mammy. 

Woman. Oh, I guess you couldn't keep your 
pretty blue eyes open. It's kind of hot in here, 
Honey. S'pose you open the door a little. 

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\_Honey opens the door, peers out into the 
night, then comes hack to her mother and 
sits down on the side of the bed.~\ 

Honey. It's a pretty night. There's a big 
moon, round and blue-white, and lots of stars, 
specially around the edge — speckling the sky. 

Woman. It would be pretty up in the moun- 
tains tonight. 

Honey [clasping her mother's hand and smil- 
ing delightedly^. Oh, wouldn't it be pretty! 

Woman. I guess the moon would be hanging 
up in the east over the Black Face Ridge and all 
across the valley it would be so bright you 
couldn't scarcely see the lights in the houses. 

Honey. And then in the north Great Stormy 
would be humping hisself, big and still and white. 

Woman. And in the south Bald Face would 
be frowning, all black because he would be be- 
twixt us and the moon. 

Honey. And Round Knob would be below us 
all white instead of green, and so still and smooth 
and looking so far away. 

Woman. And all the big trees would stand 
strong and quiet and the leaves of the bushes 
would all shine in the moonlight and all the air 
would smell of laurel. Our cabin is setting there 
strange and lonesome. No honey-child to come 
and lift the latch and open the door and come out 
to sniff the night breeze and make birds and beasts 
out of the stars. Our cabin must be setting there 
wishful-like. 

Honey. And all the birds would be gone to 
sleep. Mammy, where would that little hum- 
ming-bird sleep? The little green one that used 

76 



HONEY 

to come for the honey-suckle on the porch of our 
cabin? 

Woman. Oh, I guess he's asleep In the woods. 
Maybe up In a big cottonwood tree. 

Honey. A cottonwood leaf would be big 
enough for him to wrap hisself up in round and 
round and round. 

Woman. It would be awful pleasant to be 
asleep off In the woods. Wouldn't it, Honey? 
And if a person was a-going to die, it would be 
nice to die up in the mountains and be buried 
where you could hear the wind singing In the tops 
of the trees and the grassy branch on its way down 
through the ravine to the valley. 

Honey. But, mammy, what makes you talk 
that way? You ain't going to die. [She turns 
and searches the JV avian's face earnestly.^ 

Woman. Oh, no, I ain't a-going to die, 
Honey, child. I was just pretending if a person 
was a-going to. It would be so nice to be where 
you could just hear the singing of the wind and 
water 'stead of the factory whistle and all the 
clatter on the pavement and street-cars banging 
and engines and all the racket of town. 

Honey. Does it hurt you, mammy? 

Woman. Oh, no, only maybe sometimes just 
a little it makes me fret. If a person was a-going 
to die, it would be nice to be up in the moun- 
tains. 

Honey. But you ain't going to. I wouldn't 
let you. I'd take care of you. I am taking care 
of you. [She takes her mother's hand and 
caresses f/.] I don't just know what I'd do with- 
out you. 

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Woman. I guess you'd take care of your 
pappy, wouldn't you, Honey? 

Honey [hesitating for a time and stiffly^. I 
guess so. 

Woman. Honey, child, you don't seem to be 
toward your pappy the way you used to was. 
What's the matter? [There is no answer.^ 
What makes you different? W^hat's the matter? 

Honey. Nothing, mammy. 

Woman. Yes, there is. You love your 
mammy, don't you, dear? 

Honey. Oh, you know I do ! [ Turning to her 
adoringly. 1 

Woman. Then what's the matter? 

Honey. Well, pappy don't — well, he don't 
work none, does he ? He don't — well, he don't 
take much care of — well, of us, does he? 

Woman. You mustn't notice things so, dearie. 
Some things can't be helped. And so you just 
mustn't notice. You have to make yourself think 
that. If I shouldn't stay with you I want you 
should promise me something. Honey, child, you 
promise me you'll take care of your pappy long 
as he needs you. 

Honey. Oh, mammy! 

Woman. Won't you? 

Honey [very hesitatingly and sighing^. Oh, 
yes, mammy, I'd promise you anything. So I 
promise. [After a pause.'] That would mean 
I couldn't get married, but I don't want to. The 
mill girls get married so as not to have to give 
their wages to their paps, but the Teacher don't 
want them to do that — not to get married so 
young. Oh, mammy, I wisht you could have 

78 



HONEY 

seen the Teacher. I guess it was like a angel's 
visit. 

Woman. I wisht I could. I never saw a 
angel. 

Honey. But I got you, mammy. I don't 
want nothing else. \_Kissing her.] But I 
wisht — ! If you could have whatever you wisht 
for, mammy, what would you wish? 

Woman. Just one thing? 

Honey. Yes, just one thing. 

Woman. To have always? 

Honey. Yes, to have always. 

Woman. That's a awful important wish. 

Honey. Yes, it ought to take right smart of 
thinking. 

Woman. Give me a little time. 

Honey. All right. 

Woman [after a brief pause']. I'm ready. 

Honey. All right. Well, what do you wish 
for most of every thing in the whole world to 
have always? 

Woman. A tombstone. 

Honey [disappointed and starting]. Why, I 
thought you'd say me! I thought that you'd wish 
to have me most of all to have all the rest of your 
life! 

Woman. I guess I got you. Honey, for the 
rest of my life. I don't have to wish for that. 
I'm so tired it wouldn't seem worth while to wish 
for nothing else in this world but a tombstone 
and it would be so nice to have one after a per- 
son was gone. Well, what do you wish for 
most? 

Honey. Well, I was a-going to wish to have 

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you, mammy, but if that ain't in the wishing, why, 
then, next I would wish for a eddication. 

Woman. Oh, my, oh ! I guess that's as hard 
to come by as a tombstone. Seems as if you was 
further away from it working down here in the 
mills in town than you was up in the mountains. 
I guess you and me ain't neither of us ever going 
to get our wish, you pore little lamb. 

Honey. Oh, we will, mammy, we shorely 
will. I feel as if I must get mine, mammy. I 
must. Only I do wish you wouldn't never need 
yours. Don't you feel better tonight, dear? 
Don't you, please? 

Woman. Oh, yes, I'm feeling better and bet- 
ter every day. And I feel so tired now as if 
maybe I could go right to sleep. 

Honey. Do you, dear ? I am mighty sleepy, 
myself. 

Woman. Are you, you pore little lamb? 
You just lay down here now and rest by your 
mammy, you little lamb — you dear little lamb- 
kin. 

\^The Woman pulls the child down to her 
breast and in her mother's arms Honey falls 
asleep. Curtain to the second act.^ 



ACT III 

[It is a Saturday afternoon in autumn. 
The cabin looks just the same as before. Sum- 
mer is over and it is beginning to be chill to- 
wards sunset. The windows and door are 

80 



HONEY 

closed and a poor fire is struggling in the old 
cook-stove. The Man sits as before in the 
rocking-chair, smoking. He is somewhat 
spruced up. He sits gazing impatiently 
through the window. After a moment or two 
he gets up, goes to the door, opens it, and stands 
leaning against the jamb, looking out. Mill 
children are seen going by, most of them pale, 
listless bits of humanity. The Man calls to 
some of them.~\ 

Man. hi, there, you come In here. [Two 
little white-faced girls obey him and come to the 
door.~\ Have you seen my girl? 

Mill-Child. No, sir, we ain't. 

Man. Go long with you, then. \^They go 
and he still stands watching. He calls to two 
others, a boy and a girl, little worn-out things, 
brother and sister. They come in and look cur- 
iously around.^ Have you seen my girl this aft- 
ernoon? 

Mill-Child. No, I ain't seen her. 

Man. Was she at the mill today? 

Mill-Child. Oh, yes, sir. 

Man. Did she start home? 

Mill-Child. I don't know. I ain't seen 
her. 

Man. Oh, all right. Go long with you. 
\^These go, too, and he stands watching a few 
minutes longer, then calls to two others, a boy 
and a girl. They come in, too.^ Did you see 
my girl today. 

Mill-Child. Yes, sir. 

Man. Was she at the mill today? 

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Mill-Child. Yes, sir. 

Man. Was you all working at the mill today 
same as usual? From early morning on? 

Mill-Child. Yes, sir. 

Man. Working all afternoon? 

Mill-Child. Yes. 

Man. Did you get paid your wages same as 
usual? 

Mill-Child. Yes, sir. 

Man. Did my girl get paid and start home? 

Mill-Child. I don't know. I ain't seen her 
lately. 

Man. Oh, go long with you. [With impa- 
tient gesture he pushes them out, shuts the door 
with a hang and goes to sit down in the rocking- 
chair again. After a short time Honey opens 
the door quietly and comes in. She wears an old 
black cotton dress that has evidently been cut 
down to fit her in some sort but very inadequately 
fulfills the intention. She is thinner and paler 
and there has come into her face a great wistful- 
ness and sadness with a patient determination. 
She carries a bundle done up in an old newspaper. 
The Man does not look at her but speaks an- 
grily.'] 

Man. Where you been? You don't come 
straight home from the mill. 

Honey. No, sir, I didn't come straight home. 
\She takes off her hat and hangs it up on a nail 
after first carefully placing the bundle on her lit- 
tle bed which is there as before.] 

Man. You got your nerve to tell me you 
didn't. You're plumb ornery. Since your 
mammy died you got to acting just as you please. 

82 



HONEY 

Not that you didn't do it afore, too, she spilt you 
so. I like to know what you mean by galivanting 
so. 

Honey. I wasn't long, pappy. I ain't much 
late and I'll get your supper for you right 
away. 

Man. I don't want my supper yet, I ain't 
hungry. You want to make me eat whenever it 
suits you whether I be hungry or not, so as to 
get it over and off your hands. What I like to 
know is what you mean by galivanting about so 
and where you been? 

Honey. I just stopped at the preacher's on 
my way home. 

Man. What did you do that for ? 

Honey. They said as how there was a mis- 
sionary box there and they was distributing of the 
things. So I stopped. 

Man [with some interest^. Did they give 
you anything? 

Honey. They give me what I ast for. 

Man. What did you ast for? 

Honey. Nothing much. 

Man [thundering angrily at her~\. You 
tell me what you ast for. 

Honey. Nothing much. 

Man. You tell me ! 

Honey. Nothing much, pappy. Just what's 
in that bundle. [She is frightened but not cring- 
ing.'] 

Man. You let me see it ! 

Honey. You wouldn't care nothing about it. 

[The Man gets up, laying his pipe on the table, 
strides over to the bed, picks up the bundle 

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and carries it over to the table where he 
opens it awkwardly and slowly. Honey 
drops to her bed and sits there watching him 
as in the first act but with apprehension, dis- 
like, and a brave fear in her eyes.'\ 

Man [holding up the contents of the bun- 
dle which proves to be a large, white lid of an old 
soup tureen], Where's the other part? 

Honey. There wasn't no other part. 

Man. Wasn't none ? 

Honey. No. I guess the folks that sent it 
forgot to put in the other part — or something 
— I don't know what. 

Man. You mean that folks with sense in their 
heads would put in a missionary box just the lid 
of an old thing like this? It ain't no good, no- 
how, it's cracked. Wouldn't they give you noth- 
ing else? 

Honey. I didn't ast for nothing else. 

Man. Well you be a plumb idjit. Why 
didn't you ast for something else? What did you 
want with this? [Honey sits hugging her knees 
and looking earnestly at the lid. She does not 
answer. After a pause the Man says again.~\ 
Did you hear me? What are you going to do 
with this? 

Honey. I ain't a-going to tell you, pappy. 

Man \_furiously'\. You ain't, ain't you? 
Well, I guess you be ! 

Honey. No, I ain't, pappy. It don't con- 
cern you one way or tother. 

Man. You darst to spite me! I'll throw 
your old piece of crockery out and smash it to 
smithereens. 

84 



HONEY 

Honey [jumping to the table and catching 
up his pipe]. If you do, pappy, I'll bust your 
pipe and throw it in the fire. 

Man. Don't you do that! You give me 
that pipe I 

Honey. Then you give me my stone. 

Man. You got some secret and you're lying 
to me. 

Honey. No, it ain't just to say a secret, and 
you know I never lied to you in my life, pappy. 
You can't say that about me. And, oh, pappy 
[entreatingly] the white stone ain't worth noth- 
ing to you, nohow, and what's the use just muss- 
ing up the yard with it? 

Man [slowly laying down the lid on the ta- 
ble and taking the pipe from her~\. Well, I 
guess you're cracked same as this old thing. You 
need another mammy to keep you straight. 
You've got so you argufy with me — you to have 
the face to argufy with your pappy! You're 
growing up and changing, getting worse and 
worse, hard and mean and ornery. 

Honey. I can't never have no other mammy 
but my own mammy. And she's gone. [After 
a pause.l Don't you wish we could buy her a 
tombstone ? 

Man. No. Tombstones is for rich people. 

Honey. Her grave is sinking down so if 
there ain't something to mark it I won't be able 
pretty soon to tell where it is. It's nice and 
green, the rains have kept the grass nice but 
they've sunk the earth so it's getting pretty nigh 
level. I wisht we could buy a tombstone for her. 

Man. It ain't right to waste money on the 

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dead. Money's for the living. I'm going up 
street a little to buy me some tobacco. You can 
get supper ready gainst I come back. I ain't 
going to be gone long. So you be spry. 
Where's your wages? 

{^Hoyiey pulls out an envelope from her dress 

and hands it to him. He takes it and opens 

it, counts over the money and puts it into his 

pocket.^ 

Man. Is this all? Ain't you never going to 

get a raise? 

Honey. I reckon I v/ill some time. 
Man. You make up the fire and have supper 
ready gainst I get back. That old stove don't 
draw good, you'd ought to have fixed it — I told 
you afore to fix it. Now be spry. 

\_He takes his hat down from the nail and goes 
out. When he is well out of the room, 
Honey dips water from the bucket into a 
basin and carefully washes the lid, dries it 
and wraps it up again in the newspaper, when 
the door opens rather noisily and the Neigh- 
bor walks into the room and looks about, 
scowling at the girL~\ 
Neighbor. Where's your pap? 
Honey. He just went out. 
Neighbor. Where'd he go to? 
Honey. Down street to get some tobacco. 
Neighbor. Well, I want to see him. You 
tell him to come over as soon as he gets home? 
Do you hear? [Noticing the bundle.^ What 
you got there? 

Honey. Oh, just an old plaything. 
Neighbor. You're too big to have play- 

86 



HONEY 

things. You'd ought to be ashamed of yourself. 
Now don't you forget to tell him. [She starts 
out, meeting the Mill-Woman at the door. The 
Mill-Woman has a doleful cheerfulness in her 
** Howdy." The Neighbor goes out, and the 
Mill-JVoman comes in.'] 

Mill-Woman. Howdy, Honey. Fm so 
tired, I liked to drop. \^She does drop into a 
chair.] I come to see if you'd like I should help 
you cut down that other dress of your mam's. 
This one we fixed fits you beautiful, don't it? 
\_She admires Honey^s unspeakable costume.] 

Honey. I'd like to help but I'm awful tired 
nights now and I'm maybe going to be busy about 
something else. 

Mill-Woman. How are you making out? 

Honey. Oh, I work as hard as I can. 

Mill-Woman [shaking her head dolefully]. 
We're all forlorn critters in the hands of 
the Lord. I'm going to take my second kid to 
work Monday morning. She's nothing but a 
baby and can't do much. Do you miss your 
mammy much? [Honey looks dumbly at her, 
with tears welling into her eyes.] I reckon you 
do miss her. It's lonesome like when you come 
home at night by yourself and nobody here, ain't 
it? And when you get awake in the morning I 
reckon it's mortal lonesome. [Honey gazes at 
her with eyes big with tears as if begging her to 
be quiet, but says nothing.] You ain't had sup- 
per, have you? 

Honey. No, ma'am. Thank you for being 
so good to me. [She tries to smile at the Mill- 
Woman.] But there's only one thing in the 

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whole world I want now. You see I got to get it 
some day, somehow. 

Mill- Woman. Get what? 

Honey. Larnlng. My heart's just as set 
on it as ever. Somehow I'm going to get it. 

Mill-Woman. Well I don't know. I don't 
know much about such things. Good-by. \_She 
looks as if the subject were quite beyond her, and 
goes. Honey pokes up the stove, fills the kettle 
and puts it on when there is another knock at the 
door. She calls out " Come in " and the Mill- 
Girl enter s.^^ 

Mill-Girl. I just come to help you wash up 
the dishes and clear up but you ain't had supper 
yet, have you? Seems as if I always was too 
early or too late or something — never just on 
time. Never was in just the right time, never 
had no luck, nohow. [Honey proceeds with her 
preparations for supper, getting out knives, forks, 
plates, etc., while the Mill-Girl goes on talking.'] 
I always was the unluckiest critter. Nothing I 
ever did come out right. I wisht I hadn't got 
married. A person plans to get married and 
save all her wages and not have to give them to 
her pap, but instead you'll be having babies and 
be sick and miserable. I wisht I hadn't never 
tried to do nothing. I'm always unlucky. 

Honey [^tenderly]. I'm awful sorry for 
you. 

Mill-Girl. Things don't turn out good for 
them as plans and plans and thinks they're going 
to be so smart. My back aches so when I'm 
working in the mill seems as if I'd die. I can't 

88 



HONEY 

hardly stand and I have to stand all day long. I 
wisht I'd listened to the Teacher. 

Honey. How did you know about the 
Teacher? 

Mill-Girl. Oh, I heard about the school 
and was out there once on an errand for some 
summer folks at a cottage and one of the teachers 
got hold of me and tried to teach me reading and 
writing. Then, when I was a-going to get mar- 
ried, it got noised round and so the Teacher came 
and hunted me up and tried to make me promise I 
wouldn't. And I promised — like I told you — 
just to get rid of them. You can't go way from 
home, nohow. It's — you can't do nothing, no- 
how. 

Honey. I don't see how you could lie — not 
to the Teacher. 

Mill-Girl. You bet I could. I wisht I 
hadn't. But you got to lie sometimes. They got 
a school away out where people get eddicated, and 
larn to teach and do all kind of things. Maybe 
I could a-worked there. 

Honey. I know. I been hearing about 
it. I been asking about it. How far away is it? 

Mill-Girl. Oh, it's awful far away — away 
the other side of town and then out the road 
apiece up the mountain. Oh, dear, [as she risesi 
I am so tired. I aches so. Don't you never 
think you are going to better yourself by getting 
married. You ain't. You're going to worse it. 
You ain't a-going to help nothing by planning. 
It's just better to leave things go. 

Honey. I guess folks has got to do what 

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they want to do. Seems as if something forces 
them. They got to. [The Mill-Girl looks at 
her wonderingly.^ 

Man. [Entering.^ Ain't you got supper 
ready yet? [He scowls at the Mill-Girl who 
goes out and the father and daughter are left 
alone together and remain silent for a few mo- 
ments, he taking his customary rocking-chair, she 
hurrying her supper preparations.^ 

Honey. I didn't know you was in a hurry, 
pappy. But it won't be but a few minutes now. 
Just as soon as the kettle boils. You said you 
wasn't hungry. 

Man. I ain't, but I want to get through. I'm 
going out, I got business to attend to. [He looks 
important. Honey glances at him surprised hut 
says nothing. He gets up, goes to the broken mir- 
ror and carefully combs his hair and whiskers. 
After a little while Honey speaks. '\ 

Honey. The Neighbor lady next door was 
here and said as how she wanted you to come 
over. 

Man. Umph. [Then after a pause. '\ I 
may as well tell you tonight, cause it's going to 
happen soon. I'm going to get married. 

Honey. [Stopping stock still and gazing at 
him.'\ But you are married. 

Man. No, I ain't — not by a coffinfull. 
When a man's wife dies he ain't married in the 
eyes of the law or of the Lord. Your mam's 
dead and buried. She's as dead as she'll ever be. 
And me and the woman next door is going to 
hitch up. 

Honey. Oh, pappy, not her! 

90 



HONEY 

Man. Yes, of course, her. Why not? It's 
the best thing. Then we can all live in one 
house and not have to pay rent on two. And 
you and her children can all work together and 
there'll be more wages. 

Honey. Pappy, I can't live along of her I 

Man. Oh, yes, you can. You got to. 

Honey. No, pappy, no. I don't. I tell you 
how it is. I promised mammy afore she died that 
I'd take care of you long as you needed me, but 
if you get married you won't need me no longer. 
And if you get married to her, I won't stay with 
you. 

Man \_half rising as if to strike her~\. You 
— you darst to say that to me? You little var- 
mint. 

Honey. If you do, pappy, if you get married, 
I'm going away. [With a great calm and deter- 
mination.^ 

Man [laughing derisively^. You go way! 
What good would it do you? You ain't got no 
money. You couldn't go nowhere where I 
couldn't get you. 

Honey [talking as if to herself and in deep 
thought^. I could run away and if you got me 
back again I could run away again and keep it up 
again and again and again till you got tired of it 
and let me go. I could get somebody — some- 
body good and kind — maybe there is one some- 
where in the big world — to give me money 
to go far enough so you wouldn't never find me. 

Man. You little varmint! [He gets up and 
makes for her but she eludes him. He is slow 
and lumbersome, she light and lissome, and as 

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he follows her, she keeps the tables and chairs he- 
tween them. They talk as he chases her abouL 
He is very angry and knocks down the furniture 
in his effort to catch her. Breathing heavily , he 
makes a violent scene.^ You little snake to talk 
that way to me! I'll teach you I You ain't go- 
ing to get away from me ! 

Honey. Yes, I am. I won't stay with you 
now. I'd get married afore I'd stay with you. 

Man. You wild-cat ! 

Honey. I'm going to get my eddication at 
last. 

Man. You devil ! I'll get you yet ! 

Honey. If you get me, I'll kill myself. Do 
you hear — do you hear? I'll kill myself. 

Man. No, you won't. You wouldn't do that. 

Honey. Yes, I would. You know I always 
do what I say I will. You know I don't never lie. 

Man. You shut your mouth. You're going to 
stay right here with me and pay your wages regu- 
lar every Saturday night. 

Honey. No, no, I ain't. Never. Never. 
Not after this. You might as well give up. 
My mind's made up. I'm going to run away 
from you. 

Man. You can't do it ! You can't ! You lit- 
tle snake! 

Honey. If I'm a snake, then I can wriggle 
out. And I'm going to right now. I'm going out 
to my mammy's grave and talk to her alone in the 
big moonlight. It'll come to me there. Some- 
thing'll come to me there to tell me what to do. 
While I'm fixing her tombstone. For I'm going 
to take her her tombstone. She's going to have 

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HONEY 

a tombstone at last. This Is her tombstone. I'm 
going to give her her wish. [She catches up the 
lid in its newspaper wrapping from of the table 
adroitly and makes for the door.^ 

Man. You come back — you I 

Honey. [As she passes out through the 
door,'\ Maybe I'll come back — but not now. 
[Curtain to Act III.] 



ACT IV 

[// is Sunday morning of the next day. 
The room is dishevelled, the bed unmade, 
A coffee-pot stands on the stove, a coffee-cup, 
plate with bacon rinds, and other dirty dishes are 
on the table. The Man, as before, sits in the 
rocking-chair smoking. He sits there for a few 
mo7nents before the door opens slowly and 
Honey comes in with a small bundle in a news- 
paper and a thin newspaper parcel. She looks 
very tired and worn, as if she could scarcely 
walk, is pale, weary, depressed. She goes to 
her low bed, drops down on it, casting her bun- 
dle and the little parcel from her to the bed by 
her side. The Man looks around at her.'\ 

Man. Well, you come back. I knowed you 
would. You come back last night after your tan- 
trum — I heard you come in and go to bed and it 
was terrible late — most morning. And then 
you'd gone again this morning afore I got awake. 
But you come back [smiling^ — I knowed you 
would. I was waiting for you. I was expecting 

93 



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of you. I reckon now you've come back this time 
to stay and settle down. 

Honey [wearily]. No — no — I ain't. 

Man [turning his chair round suddenly so 
that he faces her, and speaking angrily]. What? 
You going to try running away again ? You going 
to try to outface me again? Well I guess you 
ain't. And I guess you'll get tired of that game. 
[Pounding the table roughly with his fist.] You 
stay right here along of me. Where was you last 
night ? 

Honey. With mammy. [Quietly.] 

Man [with a sudden start]. What you mean? 
You been — you been [rather tremblingly] you 
been seeing ghosts? 

Honey. I don't know. I was with my 
mammy out in the graveyard. 

Man. Was she there? [Wholly fright- 
ened.] 

Honey. She's always there when I go out. 

Man [in a terrified whisper]. Did you see 
her? 

Honey. I can always see my mammy. And 
I talk to her and tell her all about everything. 

Man. Does j/?^ talk? 

Honey. No, she don't just exactly talk, but I 
know she hears and understands everything and 
so I tell her about things. I tell her, *' Mammy, 
another of the girls in the mill has got cotton in 
her lungs like you did and is going to die, and 
another girl got married and been sick ever since, 
and one of the boys has got his fingers mashed 
in a machine." And I tell her about every new 
baby being born because she always loved little 

94 



HONEY 

babies, and I tell her when anybody dies because 
she was always sorry, and I tell her every scrap 
of news so she won't feel forgotten. And then I 
tell her about the things out there. Last night 
there was a big round moon, like the one the night 
she died, and lots of stars, and it wasn't cold at 
all — it was warm on the ground and soft in the 
thick grass. I fixed her tombstone for her. It 
ain't a very nice one but it's the best I could do. 

Man. Is that what you wanted that crockery 
dish-lid for? 

Honey. Yes, I don't care if you know now, 
because you won't bother to go out there to break 
it. Mammy always wanted a tombstone and now 
she's got one. I wisht it was nicer but it is the 
best I can do — yet. And I fixed it pretty in the 
grass and told her about it all, and as how I was 
going to plant her grave with violets as soon as I 
had time so as they would bloom next spring. 
And I told her about the night being so pretty, 
so soft and warm and bright. 

Man. [^Trying to reinstate his aplomb. '\ I 
guess you're just making all this up. Your mam 
was always making up things and you're like her 
only worse. I guess you didn't actually talk to 
her. 

Honey [quite sincerelyl. Oh, yes, I did. 

Man. Was you there all the time? 

Honey. Yes, I stayed with my mammy. I 
wasn't hungry. I stayed with her and talked to 
her till I didn't feel so bad. I told her all about 
what I was going to do, because it came to me 
there out on my mammy's grave what I should 
do — that I wasn't going to stay home no more. 

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But I didn't tell her what you was fixing to do, for 
I thought it would make her feel too sad. 

Man \uneasily~\ . Where did you go this morn- 
ing? 

Honey. I went to the Teacher that's got the 
school. It's away the other side of town and out 
the road up the mountain. I started afore sunup 
and walked all the way — oh, it was so far. And 
when I got to the place the Teacher wasn't 
there. 

Man. Serve you right. Now you'll stay to 
home. And understand after this home's next 
door. I'm going to get married today and we're 
going to move right in there and I'm going to sell 
all this furniture. [JVaving his hand around to 
the poor sticks of things.^ She's got plenty. We 
won't be paying rent here. And you will be giv- 
ing your wages to me or to her every Saturday 
night same as usual. 

Honey. I won't never pay my wages to her 
and I won't never pay them to you again. It ain't 
right. 

Man. Course it's right. Everybody does it. 

Honey. I don't care, it ain't right. Mammy 
told me there was things we couldn't help and so 
we mustn't notice them. She said I mustn't no- 
tice and I tried not to, but I guess she didn't know. 
For it ain't true — leastways, it ain't true for me. 

Man. Oh, shut up your argufying ! 

Honey. It ain't right for you to be fooling 
yourself. That house over there ain't my home 
and I ain't going to stay. 

Man. What be you going to do ? 

Honey. I don't know. 

96 



HONEY 

Man. I guess you don't. Well, / do! 
You're going to stay right here. 

Honey. No, I won't never do that. I said I 
could kill myself. And I can do that if' there 
ain't nothing else. I can do that and I will. 
Then I'll go lie down out there by my mammy. 

Man [getting up with a jerk^, I wisht you'd 
stop talking about her. 

Honey. I can't stop thinking about her. 

Man. You can stop talking about her — you 
got to. [Combing his hair.] You clear up in 
here now. I'm going next door. 

Honey. This is the last time I'm going to 
clear up for you, pappy. 

Man. You varmint! [He throws down the 
brush in sudden anger and tries to strike her but 
she adroitly puts the table between them.] You 
spitfire ! You snake ! [He lunges at her but she 
evades him. He picks up the poker and tries to 
strike her over the head but she dodges him.] 
You wild cat ! I'll get you yet ! 

Honey [making a feint in one direction, then 
suddenly she opens the door and speaks as 
she goes out]. No, you won't, not now, pappy. 
Not never again. [She bangs the door behind 
her. The Man stops sullenly, looks chagrined 
and furious, but finally with a disdainful glance 
about the room and frowning angrily and with low 
growls, he puts on his hat and goes out. Almost 
immediately Honey slips back in again, holts the 
door carefully and noiselessly behind her, goes to 
the bucket and takes a drink, then begins clearing 
away the dirty dishes. Soon there is a knock at 
the door.] 

97 



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Honey [calling low]. Who's there? [She 
listens with keen excitement and then with a 
look of wild hope on her face she unbolts the 
door and opens it watchfully, starts hack and her 
tired blue eyes widen to sudden joy.~\ Oh! The 
Teacher I — Oh, yes, I did go out to try to find you 
but you wasn't there. — Now you've come to find 
me and help me ? — No, I didn't run away from 
home. I ain't going to have no home no more. 
My pappy's going to marry the woman next door 
and live there and I can't live with her — she was 
mean to my mammy. — Oh, yes, I know he is still 
my pappy, but it ain't the same. — I promised my 
mammy afore she died I'd take care of him long 
as he needed me, but now he won't need me no 
more, and he beats me when he can catch me, and 
he's going to marry her and I can't live along of 
her. — Oh, I got to get my larning, I got to. — If 
you won't have me I'll run away somewheres else 
— he won't care. — I can't stay here, if he gets me 
again I'll kill myself. — Oh, yes I will — I ain't 
af eared to. — Larning? — Oh, yes, I know it 
costs. And I'm pore. I ain't got a thing, not a 
thing to offer you 'cept myself. But I'll give you 
myself — my whole self. I'll work. I'll do any- 
thing. I'll work day and night. I'll wash and 
cook and sweep and scrub — I'll work at anything 
day and night. I'll give you every bit of my life. 
I'll give you all of me. Oh, please, won't you let 
me come ? — Oh ! You'll take me ? — You'll 
take me? [She stretches out her arms for a mo- 
ment j then runs back into the room, opens the thin 
newspaper parcel from which she takes a faded 
dried rose, pins it carefully to the front of her 

98 



HONEY 

queer little old black dress, gathers up her old hat 
and the newspaper bundle and goes out, leaving 
the door open behind her. Curtain to Act IV 
and to the play.l 



99 



THE DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

This play is more or less a little bit of history 
appliqued and embroidered somewhat, as history 
always is, in the telling. The action takes place 
in the late nineties of the last century. The char- 
acters dress in shirt-waists with stiff linen collars, 
sailor hats, belts, and so on of that day. They 
are giving the play of Hamlet for the benefit of the 
Social Settlement, the charity they are supporting. 

CHARACTERS : 

Susan, in the part of Hamlet, 

Martha, as Ophelia, 

Matilda, as the Queen. 

Clementine, as Horatio, 

Ethel, as Laertes, 

Beatrice, as the Player King, Fortinhras, and 

any one else, 
Barbara, as the Ghost, 
Julia, as Rosencranz and Gildenstern, 
Charlotte, as Polonius, 
Maria, as herself and the president of the Club, 

[The stage represents the hare dressing- 
room of a modest little theater that is used more 
frequently for lectures and concerts than for 
real plays. There are some plain chairs, a deal 
table, a very small defective mirror on the 
wall, a heap of stage prgperlies in the corner, 

100 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

and a trunk containing costumes. Clementine 
sits in a corner quietly looking over some papers 
and a bank-book. Martha comes in carrying a 
suit-case J drops it on the floor and begins dis- 
tractedly to take off her gloves and coat.^ 

Martha [panting and with a dramatic em- 
phasis on every other word or 5o]. Has no- 
body come yet? Am I the first? I left every- 
thing — Father and Ruth are at Atlantic City, 
Letitla has the tooth-ache, Gertrude a spranied 
ankle, and Helen the pink-eye, and we're house- 
cleaning, and the stove-pipe above the kitchen 
range came down and covered everything with 
bushels of soot — even the beefsteak, and the men 
were coming to paper the library, and the cook 
fell off the step-ladder and upset a bucket of dirty 
soap-suds into the piano, and the cat was having 
kittens — and I left it all and nearly broke my 
neck to get here on time so that they wouldn't be 
kept waiting, and here there's not a soul come yet ! 
[In the utmost despair.^ I'm always the first! 
[She drops into a chair and fans herself with an 
old newspaper she picks up from the table. ^ 

Clementine. I suppose some one has got to 
be first. 

Martha [with determination']. Yes, but it's 
not going to be 7ne any longer — it's going to 
be some one else. I'm tired of wasting time. I'm 
going to turn over a new leaf. This is the case 
of where the first shall be last. 

Julia [coming in, out of breath, tall and wil- 
lowy and graceful, carrying a suit-case and a 
spear]. Hello.. 



MORE SHORT PLAYS 



Martha. Hello, Julia. 

Julia [opening an old and worn prompt'book'\. 
Haven't they all come yet? 

Martha. Allf '* I'm the bosun tight and 
the midshipmite and the crew of the Captain's 

gig-" 

Julia. Barbara has suddenly decided to go to 

Greece again. 

Martha. Oh, law ! And left us with all the 
greasy work to do. 

Julia. I only hope she isn't drowned. 

Martha. Well, I suppose those that are 
meant for the hangman's noose don't get drowned, 
but the thought of Barb coasting airily round the 
isles of Greece in that sail-boat gives me the creeps. 

Julia [still with her prompt-book in her hand}. 
She asked me to conduct this dress rehearsal for 
her. She'll try to get here later. 

Clementine. Is this the dress rehearsal? 

Martha. It Is the very last rehearsal we are 
going to have. Hamlet will be produced tomor- 
row afternoon and evening and without any more 
rehearsing in between. 

Julia. Barbara thought we could persuade 
them to come for another rehearsal tomorrow 
morning and then just sit around in their costumes 
till afternoon with pieces of bread and butter. 

Martha. Pieces of eight, pieces of eight, 
pieces to ate you mean. 

Julia. Oh, Martha! 

Martha. Oh, I know I'm dippy. I always 
become as dippy as Mr. Rochester's maniac wife 
when I am about to be executed in one of the Col- 
lege Club plays. 

102 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

Julia [sighing], Barbara said she really 
didn't see how we could go through it without re- 
hearsing in the morning. We don't know our 
parts. 

Martha [beginning to unfasten her shirt- 
waist^. We never know our parts. Isn't it hot 
today! I'm thankful I don't have to put on 
padded velvet trousers like Susan. That's usually 
my fate. Whenever the thermometer is at 
ninety-five degrees in the shade and you dream of 
a silk tissue dress, it's then always the College 
Club has a play and I have to clothe my person in 
doublet and hose or else in chain armor and a 
beard. I don't know how I escaped this time and 
had the blessing of the filmy part of Ophelia be- 
stowed upon me. I suppose they thought an in- 
sane part suited me. Delicate irony on the part 
of the committee. 

Julia [with soothing dejection^. I was just 
saying this morning that it seemed to me any one 
of us might be nearly fit for the insane asylum. 

Martha [hunting about for a place to hang 
her clothes^. This place is the most remarkable 
example of economy in non-essentials. There 
isn't even a peg to hang a thought on. 

Julia. I feel as if there wasn't a peg [sigh- 
ing'\ to hang anything on. Do you know that 
limerick called " My Room " ? It expresses pre- 
cisely my sensations in regard to the College Club. 

I wish that my room had a floor, 
I don't so much care for a door, 
But this walking around 

103 



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Without touching the ground 
Is getting to be a great bore. 

Martha. I think I could say that about Bar- 
bara. The bottom drops out of everything and 
she takes to a sail-boat. 

Matilda [comes in panting and frightened, po- 
lite, and apologetic. She is carrying a suit-case, 
too, and a gorgeous paper crown~\. Oh, am I 
late ? It takes so long to get in from home — an 
hour always — and this morning a coal-wagon 
broke down on the track, and after that the gates 
went down for a long freight train to pass — there 
were fifty-seven cars. When the College Club 
gives a play I ought to come in to the Burnet 
House to board. [She shows the crown for all of 
them to see.'] Will this do? 

Julia. Oh, splendidly! 

Matilda. It attracted a good deal of atten- 
tion on the car coming in. The people seemed to 
admire it. I hadn't time to wrap it up. 

[Susan and Charlotte come in carrying suit- 
cases and bundles.] 

Susan [speaking very jovially as she drops two 
very large fat bundles on the floor]. Hello, girls. 
Isn't it nice we're all on time ! 

Julia. On time! You're three quarters of 
an hour late. 

Susan. Dear me, Julia, how scath-ing. What 
difference does it make to you? You sound as if 
you were conducting this rehearsal. You sound 
like Barbara. 

Martha. She is Barbara. She's going to 
take Barbara's place. Barbara is going to Greece. 

104 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

Susan. What? Again? Barbara goes over 
to Greece the way the rest of us go over to Cov- 
ington. Julia, are you going to take her part of 
Hamlet's father's ghost, too? 

Julia. No, she'll do that to-morrow — per- 
haps she'll get here for the end of this rehearsal. 

Susan. Then you are still going to be Rosen- 
stein and Gildenstix? 

Julia. Yes, I have to be both of them. 

Martha. Well, if you're going to be a soldier 
you might as well be the whole army while you're 
at it and be done with it. Don't forget your 
wings. By the way, why is an army like an 
angel? 

Susan. Because they both have wings. 

Martha. Not at all. Because they both be- 
gin with A. 

Julia. Do be serious, girls. You don't seem 
to realise this is the dress rehearsal. 

Martha. We realise it all too well. Permit 
us our swan-song. 

Susan. Beck wouldn't send these costumes 
over immediately so I had to carry them myself. 
[She begins to undo her two huge bundles.'] 

Julia. We can start the rehearsal right away 
now. We're not all here but some of us can read 
the other parts. We can have the scene of Pol- 
onius' death. 

Martha. I suppose it is too late for regrets 
but I do think it is a pity we didn't choose Othello 
instead of Hamlet. 

Susan. Oh, I don't approve of Othello. I 
don't think it ought to be presented, encouraging, 
as it does, mixed racial marriages. 

105 



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Julia. Anyhow, who would have been the 
Moor? 

Martha. Why, you, Julia, you're just cut out 
for the part. [Be it remembered that Julia is 
tall and willowy.^ 

Susan. King Lear would have been my choice. 
Inculcating, as it does, the beauty of filial devo- 
tion. 

Martha. Why do you care about that, Su- 
san? You haven't any children yet. 

Matilda. Why did we choose Hamlet? 

Martha [sarcastically^. We! 

Charlotte. Barbara wanted Hamlet. 

Susan. Which explains everything. 

Martha. Barbara bosses us round like a 
kindergarten and we all take it. Hamlet is so 
tame. We could just as well have given Mac- 
beth. Macbeth is much better suited to the Col- 
lege Club, having plenty of action. Then I could 
have been Lady Macbeth. I adore the sleep- 
walking scene. 

Julia [admiringly^. And you would have 
done it to perfection. 

Martha. But Hamlet it had to be because it 
can be so easily cut and Barbara loves to cut. 
Barbara ought to have been a butcher. 

Matilda. It really is awfully late. 

[They scramble to get of their clothes and into 
their costumes. '\ 

Julia. We can't wait any longer, girls. Let's 
have the Polonius scene. 

Susan. Beck didn't give me the Hamlet cos- 
tume after all — this is a full Falstaff suit. 

Martha. Full Falstaff is good. 

io6 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

Susan. I haven't on my black funereal weeds 
yet, but odds bodkins, 'tis enough ! [^fVith a ges- 
ture to her apparel — a negligee — pink silk pet- 
ticoat, her hair down her back, etc.'] Wait a mo- 
ment. I'll just get into my old gym trousers — 
they'll do for the melancholy Dane this time. 
[She scrambles into her gym trousers and ties 
about one shoulder an old absurd black velvet 
basque by way of princely cape, which she hunts 
out from the costume trunk. She seizes a sword 
and is ready.] Come on, thou ignominious Po- 
lonius, that I may slay thee like a rat. 

Julia. Where is Polonius? 

Charlotte [singing out in a very feminine 
voice from a corner]. Here I am! [She comes 
out with a chemise on, carrying a very bright- 
colored bath-robe.] 

Julia. Now, Queen-Mother. 

Matilda. Yes, I haven't my dress quite on 
yet. [Fumbling desperately to get the hooks of a 
black velvet waist fastened.] It is really too 
tight. 

Julia. That doesn't matter. Get back here, 
Polonius, this will do for the arras. [She places 
a chair flat down on the floor and Polonius, get- 
ting on her bath-robe, drops on the other side.] 

Charlotte. It's a good thing to have some- 
thing she can see through, so she won't put my eyes 
out with her sword. 

Julia. Now then, come on, Queen, just let 
your dress go now. 

Matilda. It is really so tight I can't fasten It. 

[Susan and Matilda, with half-fastened waist, 
parade and act.] 

107 



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Susan. Now, mother, what's the matter with 
you? You have very badly insulted my father's 
memory. 

Matilda. You — you — I — [^she is embar- 
rassed and utterly lost for her part^. 

Julia. Oh, Susan, you didn't give her her 
cue. 

Susan. Didn't I? Well she ought to be glad 
I gave her anything. 

Julia. But don't you see, when you don't give 
her the right cue, it throws her entire speech out? 

Susan. Well, I gave her the idea. I don't 
remember the exact words right there. Let me 
see the book. Here we are. [Fery dramati- 
cally.'] " Mother, you have my father much of- 
fended." 

Julia. Wait, Susan, for her speech. Go on, 
Queen-Mother. 

f< Matilda [embarrassed and all mixed up], I 
— I — where shall I begin? 

Susan [with much self-possession]. *' Now, 
mother, what's the matter?" [Aside.] Get 
along with you now — go ahead. 

Matilda. " Hamlet, thou hast thy father 
much offended." 

Susan. " Mother, you have my father much 
offended." 

Matilda. *' Come, come, you answer with an 
idle tongue." 

Susan. '' Go, go, you question with a wicked 
tongue." 

Matilda. "Why, how now, Hamlet?" 

Susan. " What's the matter now? " 

Matilda. "Have you forgot me?" 

io8 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

Susan. ** No, by the rood, not so : 
You are the queen, thy husband's brother's wife; 
And — would it were not so, — you are my 
mother." 

Matilda. " Nay, then, I'll set those to you 
that can speak.'* 

Julia. Oh, wait, wait! 

\^They go on rapidly and withut paying any at- 
tention to her.Ji 

Susan. 
"Come, come, and sit you down; you shall not 

budge. 
You go not till I set you up a glass 
Where you may see the innermost part of you." 

[Julia frantically tries to stop them.^ 

Matilda. 
** What wilt thou do ? Thou wilt not murder me ? 
Help, help, ho." 

Charlotte [behind the arras, i.e. the chair]. 
" What, ho, help, help, help." 

Susan. " How, now, a rat. Dead, for a 
ducat, dead." [Passes her sword through the 
chair. 1 

Charlotte. " Oh, I am slain. [Gives a 
feminine and very artificial scream and rolls over 
on the floor. Julia looks utterly hopeless.] 

Matilda. " Oh me, what hast thou done? 

Susan. *' Nay, I know not." 

Julia [at last breaking in violently]. I should 
think you didn't ! Half of that was cut. Don't 
you remember? 

Martha [with a scream]. Shades of Bar- 
bara I 

Susan. Oh, yes, I remember now, but this 

109 



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copy isn't cut. That was the trouble. You see 
it wasn't my fault at all. Let me see your copy. 
Now, then, we'll go over it again. [Taking the 
book from Julia.^ 

\_Beatrice comes in, hot and tired and carrying 

a suit-case.^ 
Julia. But, Susan, you ought to know your 
part. 

Susan. Julia, I will. [With overwrought 
earnestness.^ You know you can always depend 
upon me — I always know my part when the play 
is given. I promise I'll know it tomorrow. 
[With a beatific smile.l 

Martha. Polonius screams like a debutante. 
Susan. It's more of a groan she ought to give 
— chesty — you know. 

Julia. Pitch your voice just as low as you can, 
Polonius. 

Charlotte [sitting up on the floor and sing- 
ing out with sweet cheerfulness^. All right. 
Julia. Go on, Susan. 

Susan. *' Now, mother, what's the matter? " 
Matilda. '' Hamlet, thou hast thy father 

much offended." 
Susan. " Mother, thou hast my father much 

offended." 
Matilda. ''Why, how now, Hamlet? 

Have you forgot me ? " 
Susan. *' No, by the rood, not so — you shall 

not budge." 
Matilda. " What wilt thou do? Thou wilt 
not murder me? 
Help, help, ho. 

no 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

Susan [discarding her book'], "How now? 
A rat. Dead for a dime, dead." 

\_She passes her sword through the chair even 

more dramatically than before.] 
Charlotte. " O, I am slain." \_She speaks 
in a sepulchral tone and then groans in an even 
deeper and more dreadful and impossible voice 
and rolls over on the floor in most awful writh- 
ing s.] 

Susan. Let's go through that sword-thrust 
again. 

Charlotte. Go through the sword-thrust but 
don't have the sword-thrust go through me, please. 
Be careful. 

Julia. Let's get this chair placed exactly 
right. 

[Julia, Susan, Matilda, and Charlotte busy 
themselves arranging the chair, practising the 
thrust, Julia saying '^ This way/^ and so on, 
all of them making up business with an occa- 
sional remark, while the following conversa- 
tion takes place swiftly on the other side of 
the stage, Beatrice, Martha and Clementine 
standing close together in deep earnestness.] 
Beatrice. But, Martha, I don't see how any- 
body could live through it. 

Martha. It was the worst case of appendi- 
citis in history. 

Clementine. A cousin of mine had the worst 
case of adenoids. 

Martha. Oh, but this case is going to be 
written up in all the surgical journals. 

Clementine. So was this case of adenoids. 



Ill 



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There was the surgeon and his assistant and the 
anaesthetizer and five nurses and they were operat- 
ing an hour and six minutes and removed forty- 
nine adenoids. 

Martha. I don't believe it. 

Beatrice. My uncle's wife's cousin had the 
worst case of gall-stones ever recorded. They 
took out seventeen stones ranging from the size 
of a shirt-button to one as big as a cauliflower. 

Martha. Think of all that being in your nose. 
It's a rocky road to Dublin. 

Beatrice. They weren't adenoids, Martha, 
they were gall-stones. 

Martha. John's appendix must have been 
perforated like a hornet's nest and he never knew 
about it. He ate a hearty dinner Sunday. 

Beatrice. Isn't it remarkable that people al- 
most always eat a hearty meal just before they 
drop dead? 

Martha. And in an hour and a half John 
was on the operating table. The doctor said if it 
had gone sixteen seconds longer it would have been 
too late. He is wearing a draining-tube yet. 

Julia. Girls, do you think this is a dress re- 
hearsal or a post-mortem? 

Susan [humming to herself and then negli- 
gently poking Charlotte with her sword^, " I do 
repent me but heaven hath pleased it so." I think 
that went rather well. Only, Charlotte's groans 
sounded like the subterranean moans of a dying 
jelly-fish. Charlotte, couldn't you wail and groan 
differently? Something like this. [Makes sev- 
eral attempts.'] 

Julia. Polonius can practise his groans pri- 

112 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

vately and we will go on to another scene. Has 
Laertes come yet ? Well, then if he hasn't, we can 
have the Hamlet-Ophelia scene. 
^ Susan. Just let me have your book, Julia. 
Of course I know my lines for this scene, but hav- 
ing the book in my hand gives me a sense of confi- 
dence. [She strides apart and Martha, shimmer- 
ingly, diaphanously, from a distant corner, comes 
absent7nindedly forth.^ " Soft you now, 
The fair Ophelia. — Nymph, in thy orisons 
Be all my sins remembered." [Always speaking 
melodramatically in her part of Hamlet.^ 

Martha [simpering']. " Good my lord, 

How does your honor for this many a day? " 

Susan. "I humbly thank you; well, well, 
well." 

Martha. " My lord, I have remembrances of 
yours. 
That I have longed long to re-deliver; 
I pray you now receive them." 

Susan [roughly]. " No, not I ; 

I never gave you ought." 

Martha. " My honored lord, I know right 
well you did 
And with — " 

Julia [breaking in]. But that's cut! Cut it. 

Martha. All right, spirit of Barbara, con- 
sider it cut. 

" Their perfume lost 
Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind." 

Susan. "Ha, ha, are you honest?" [With 
a lunge and fierce glare at Martha.] 

Martha [starting hack]. Oh, jumping cat- 
fish, Susan, you scare me into sixteen fits. If you 

113 



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do it that way I'll forget all my lines. You make 
me feel as if I had stolen the pennies off a dead 
man's eyes. ♦ 

Julia. Do it over. Give her the cue, 
Ophelia. 

Martha. " Rich gifts wax poor when givers 
prove unkind." [Aside.] I'm almost tired of 
that line. 

Susan. " Ha, ha, are you honest? " [Sap- 
lessly, without any spirit utterly, swinging some- 
thing, — preferably corsets — by a string.l^ 

Julia. Oh, Susan, put some life into it. 

Susan. Well, I did before. 

Julia. Twenty horse-power, yes. 

[Ethel, very short and plump, comes in carrying 
a suit-case and goes and sits down in a corner 
from where she watches the action.] 

Susan. I see, you want roast-beef medium — 
medium honest, like the rest of the world. I sup- 
pose you know it means a certain particular femin- 
ine sort of honesty? 

Martha. Which, by the way, is the only sort 
of honesty the feminine mind is thought capable of 
— and that seldom. 

Julia. Is this a symposium of aphorisms or 
is it a rehearsal? 

Susan [going on with her part]. '* Are you 
fair?" 

Martha [turning to Julia]. That's too mean 
a question to ask any one to her face in public. 
[To Susan.] "What means your lordship?" 
[Always speaking with simpering affectation.] 

Susan. " That if you be honest and fair, your 
honesty should admit no discourse to your beauty." 

114 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

This and what follows seems to me a trifle — er 
— suggestive, as it were. Do you think the au- 
dience will understand the meaning and disap- 
prove ? 

Martha. Oh, the audience! They won't 
know enough to understand the meaning. You 
can always depend on the utter ignorance of au- 
diences. 

Julia \_sighing deeply']. There is no use to 
discuss it — that part was all cut out. Do you 
suppose Barb would leave it in? You have the 
wrong book again. [To Susan.] 

Susan [skirmishing for the right hook and then 
she goes on with great emotion]. " I loved you 
once." 

Martha. '' Indeed, my lord, you made me 

beheve so." 
\While the following scene proceeds^ Matilda 
is at one side mumbling her part, Beatrice 
strides up and down on the other side more 
than audibly mumbling her part, and Char- 
lotte writhes on the floor, trying different va- 
rieties of groans which may the more appro- 
priately represent the sufferings of the ex- 
piring Polonius.] 
Susan. '* I loved you not." 
Martha. *' I was the more deceived." 
Susan. *' Get thee to a nunnery. Ha," — Is 
that all cut about breeders? 

Martha. Certainly — it isn't wellbred. 
Susan. '' I am very proud, revengeful, ambi- 
tious. — We are arrant knaves all. Believe none 
of us. Go thy ways to a nunnery." [Suddenly .] 
*' Where's your father? " 

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Martha [taken by surprise and speaking in 
her natural voice]. At Atlantic City. [Stam- 
mering.~\ I mean — [With simpering unction 
again.] *' At home, my lord." 

Susan. '' Let the doors be shut upon him 
that he may play the fool no more but in's own 
house. Farewell." 

Martha. " O heavenly powers restore him.'* 

Susan. " I have heard of your paintings, too, 
well enough; God has given you one face, and you 
make yourselves another; you jig, you amble, and 
you lisp, and nickname God's creatures, and make 
your wantonness your ignorance. — Get thee to a 
nunnery, go." 

Martha. *' To have seen what I have seen." 

Susan. To have heard what I have heard! 
Good Polonius, won't you be considerate enough 
to go out and practise dying on the sidewalk? 
The sounds of your dissolution do somewhat mar 
my eloquence. 

Charlotte. I'd like to know how it sounds 
now. 

Martha. Sounds like a mortuary chapel. 

Susan. Oh, it's all right. Just remember 
you're a doddering old man. 

Julia. Oh, goodness, no, Charlotte, don't be 
the customary old man of the stage. 

Susan. That's safest. That's what she bet- 
ter try to be. 

Martha. Oh, no, not the stereotyped shuf- 
fling stage octogeranium. 

Charlotte. Well, you're hard to please. 
First you don't want me to be a debutante and 
then you criticise me for being an octogeranium. 

ii6 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

Julia. Now let's have the Hamlet-Laertes 
scene. 

Charlotte [dropping dejectedly into a chair~\. 
When you fuss so, I don't see how you can expect 
anybody to know what to do. 

[Ethel comes forth in her ordinary street 
clothes, with no attempt at costume.'] 

Julia. Are you Laertes? 

Ethel. Yes. I should have preferred to 
play Ophelia. It is better suited to me, but I 
suppose they needed some one who could manage 
a sword for the Laertes part. 

Julia. But you haven't on your armor? 

Ethel. It's too hot to wear armor today. 

Julia. But you'll have to wear it tomorrow. 

Ethel \^with quiet hut completely firm deter- 
mination]. I'm not going to wear it today. 

Martha. Sufficient unto the day is the armor 
thereof. 

Julia. But I think you ought to wear It at the 
dress rehearsal in order to become accustomed to 
it. 

Ethel. If I wore it every day for a week up 
and down in the Auburn Avenue car I wouldn't 
become accustomed to it. Did you ever wear 
chain armor? 

Julia. No, I never did. But don't you think 
It takes away a little from the verisimilitude of the 
scene not to wear just a little something — just a 
helmet, for instance? 

Ethel. I tell you I am not going to put it on 
today. I can act just as well in these clothes. If 
you want to have the scene, you'd better begin. I 
shall not wear armor today. 

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\_Martha and Beatrice have been trying to see 
themselves in the little mirror.^ 

Martha. Is this the only mirror we are go- 
ing to have ? Are we all expected to dress by this 
thing — about as big as a postage stamp? We 
have to dress all huddled up in here and with 
nothing to see ourselves in but this thing. It dis- 
torts your countenance in the weirdest way. If I 
looked into it I literally wouldn't have the face to 
go on the stage afterwards. I don't pretend to be 
a stage beauty but I know my nose doesn't wan- 
der over to my left ear the way it does in this 
thing. 

Julia [looking carefully at her book']. This 
scene calls for almost every one on the stage. Oh, 
who is the King? 

Martha. Why are we rehearsing in this 
dressing-room, anyway, instead of on the 
stage ? 

Julia. Oh, didn't you know? They are hav- 
ing a Christian Science lecture as usual on the 
stage. Who is the King? 

Chorus. Hester Smith. She isn't here. 

Julia. Clementine, will you read her part? 

Clementine. But I am Horatio. 

Julia. Oh, well, you just read both parts to- 
day, will you? 

Martha. Another case of dual personality. 
We are frequently compelled to assume the role 
of dual personality in the College Club. 

Julia. Yes. I am both Rosencranz and Gil- 
denstern. 

Martha. Those names sound so Hebraic, 
Julia. You're a regiment of Jews, is what you 

ii8 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

are. In your presence I feel almost as if I were 
in an Avondale car. 

Julia. And who is Osric? 

Chorus. Molly Adams is. She is Osric and 
the Player-queen, too. 

Julia. I'll just read her parts. The Attend- 
ants-with-Foils is Alice Kendall and she isn't here. 
Clementine, will you act as the Attendants-with- 
Foils for the moment? 

[Clementine drops all her papers and comes 
out.] 

Beatrice. Who is going to make us up ? 

Charlotte. Maria, I suppose. She always 
does. 

Martha. Oh, mercy, when she makes you up, 
you are warranted to last a year. Not cold cream, 
nor soap, nor turpentine, nor gasoline, nor any- 
thing can get the rouge off your face and it makes 
your skin so sore, too. She uses that awful paste 
stuff and she is so stubborn she won't get the liquid 
rouge because it costs more, though I'm willing 
to pay for it myself. The last time she did it I 
was ashamed to teach my Sunday-school class the 
next day. Isn't there anybody else we can get to 
do it for us? 

Julia. Yes, there is, of course. But you may 
as well make up your minds to her. She will 
do it. She won't let anybody else. Now come 
on, and have the duel. 

[They all take their places for the scene. 
Susan is tall and plump, Ethel short and 
plump.] 

Susan [to Ethel]. *' Give me your pardon, 
sir; I've done you wrong, 

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V 



But pardon't, as you are a gentleman." 

Ethel. *' I am satisfied in nature, 
I do receive your offered love like love, 
And will not wrong it." 

Julia. Now the King's speech. 

Beatrice [fumbling to find the part. Some 
one shows it to her^. " Give them the foils, 
young Osric. Cousin Hamlet, 
You know the wager? " 

Susan. *' Very well, my lord." 

Ethel [picking up a sword^, "This is too 
heavy, let me see another?" 

Susan. " This likes me well. These foils are 
all one length? " 

Ethel. These swords appear to me to be 
Civil War swords. We oughtn't to use anything 
but the foils of Shakespeare's time. 

Julia. Well, we can't help it — we haven't 
anything else. 

Ethel. But we ought to have. 

Julia [almost losing her temper~\. We can't 
have what we haven't got. 

Ethel. Some one ought to get the proper 
foils. The College Club ought not to perpetrate 
an anachronism. 

Martha [singing out'\. The College Club is 
an anachronism. It plays to work. 

Ethel. Whoever brought these swords ought 
to be made to take them back and bring foils. 
Who has charge of the weapons? 

Julia. Alice Kendall has charge of the 
weapons. 

Martha. Try making Alice take back any- 
thing. Alice and you for it, Ethel. 

120 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

Ethel \_paying no attention to Martha]. 
Then let her be sent for. And let her bring the 
foils with her. 

Martha. That sounds simple enough. 

Susan. Oh, come on with the rehearsal now. 
You and Alice can settle the weapons between you 
later. 

Julia. We are delaying the rehearsal so. 

Ethel. We must have the foils. 

Julia. But don't you see? We can't have 
them. 

Ethel. We ought to have the foils. [Un- 
moved.] 

Julia [at her wifs end]. Can't any one per- 
suade her to go on? 

Martha. Oh, Ethel, do have your fight and 
get it over. My mad scene has to be rehearsed. 

Ethel. But they are Civil War swords and 
it is quite wrong to use them. 

Susan. Come on. General Grant, General Lee 
awaits you. [With a flourish of her sword.] 

Ethel. Well, I may fight with it today, but 
I give you all fair warning I will not fight with a 
Civil War sword in Hamlet tomorrow. 

Beatrice. " Come, begin; 

And you, the judges, bare a wary eye." 

Susan. '' Come on, sir." 

Ethel. " Come, my lord." 

Susan. " One." 

Ethel. '' No." 

Susan. " Judgment." 

[As they fight Susan tries to look at her book, 
too. The swords are too heavy for them. 
They plunge about, getting overheated and 

121 



^ 



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scant of breath. Be it remembered that they 
are both ladies, Susan tall and plump, Ethel 
short and plump, Ethel much in earnest, 
determined, fiery, finally takes her sword in 
both hands and goes for her opponent as if 
with a hall-bat. Susan tries to avoid her. 
This may continue as long and as violently 
as desired.'] 
Ethel. '' A touch, a touch, I do confess.'' 
Beatrice. " Our son shall win." 
Julia [prodding Matilda], Go on, Queen, 
take the cue quickly. 

Matilda. Oh, dear me. Of course, for the 
moment I forgot. *' He's fat and scant of 
breath." ; f 

Susan. Never was tmer word spoken! * 
Julia. Susan, don't put in your own remarks 
— it upsets the girls so. 

Susan [breathlessly]. Well, Fm upset. 
Ethel. " My lord, I'll hit him now." 
Susan. Ethel, would you mind not being quite 
so bloodthirsty? 

[They fight again, Ethel making desperate 
lunges at Susan who evades her with rather 
terror-stricken difficulty. Barbara slips in 
and quietly clothes herself in a sheet over her 
street apparel, the while she watches from her 
corner the scene enacted.] 
Susan [with patronizing superiority], "You 
but dally; 
I pray you pass with your best violence ; 
I am afraid you make a wanton of me." 

Ethel [with great vehemence], "Say you 
so? Come on." 

12Z 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

- Julia [breaking in']. Now you change swords, 
you know. Don't forget that. 
Susan. Of course not. 

\In doing this, each in the most matter-of-fact 

way lays down her sword on the floor and 

picks up the sword of the other. They fight 

again. Hamlet is wounded and falls. 

^Laertes is wounded and falls. The Queen 

" swoons.] 

Matilda. " The drink, the drink. I am poi- 

Jsoned." 
Ethel. " The king's to blame." 
Susan. *' The point envenomed, too. 
Then; venom to thy work." \^Kills the King.] 
[The King, the Queen, Hamlet, and Laertes 
writhe about with groanings, moanings, 
shriekings, and in a few moments, as they lie 
strewn about the floor, Maria enters, strid- 
ing among and over their dead bodies.] 
Maria. Are you all through with the re- 
hearsal? 

All. Through? [They groan.] 
Maria. I don't suppose you realize you're 
making a perfectly awful row in here. Are you 
aware there is a Christian Science lecture going 
on just out there on the stage? 

Martha. Oh, they won't notice. They don't 
believe In noise. 

Maria. It's lucky for them they don't. Well, 
I'm sorry your rehearsal isn't over because I shall 
have to stop it in order to have a business meet- 
ing. 

All. a business meeting? Now? We can't. 
This is the dress rehearsal. 

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Maria. Well, you've got to stop your re- 
hearsing long enough to have the business meet- 
ing. 

All. What for? 

Maria. Didn't Clementine tell you? We 
haven't money enough to pay the rent. 

Beatrice. We can't stop so important a thing 
as a rehearsal merely for money. 

Maria. Dr. Haile will put the Sloyd System 
out on the sidewalk tomorrow if we haven't a 
check for him. 

Susan. Will a check check him? 

Martha. Of course. That's why they are 
called checks. 

Ethel. We can't have a meeting unless it is 
announced previously and regular notices sent out. 
It's not parliamentary. 

Maria. You will find in the by-laws that the 
president has the power to call a meeting any time 
at her own discretion. 

Barbara. But what if she hasn't any discre- 
tion? 

Ethel. A meeting called at the discretion of 
a person who hasn't any discretion would be un- 
parliamentary and any business transacted thereat 
would be illegal. 

Maria [sitting on the edge of the table']. The 
meeting will please come to order. 

Martha. Oh, well, if you want to have a 
meeting, you'll have it whether it suits the rest of 
us or not. We might as well make up our minds 
to it. But if Hamlet is a fizzle tomorrow it will 
all be your fault. 

Maria. If there are no objections we will 

124 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

omit the reading of the minutes of the previous 
meeting.. 

Susan. Maria, why do you omit the minutes 
so often? 

Martha [aside~\. Because we take no note of 
time. 

Maria. Will Miss Hildebrand kindly address 
the chair in the usual formula of Madam Presi- 
dent? 

Susan. What's the matter with you, Maria? 
Did you forget to take your digestive tablet this 
morning? 

Martha. Besides, youVe not on a chair, 
you're on a table. [To the others.] She ought 
to be tabled, then we'd be rid of her till we wanted 
to take her off ourselves. 

Susan. We sometimes do take off ourselves. 

Maria [paying no attention to them]. Miss 
Boland, will you kindly tell them the condition of 
the treasury? 

Clementine. There is twenty-three cents in 
the treasury and the rent is due — sixty dollars — 
and there are a great many outstanding bills — 
shall I read them? 

Martha \_with a groan]. I move we omit the 
reading of the bills. 

Clementine. And the residents at the Settle- 
ment haven't even a penny to buy their provisions 
with for tomorrow. 

Martha. Why can't they live exclusively on 
bananas for a while? The Head-worker says 
that bananas are so cheap and so nourishing and 
that they can easily live on them. Why don't you 
just go and buy them a few dozen bananas? 

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Maria [with very intentional and hiting sterti" 
ness~\ . Do you wish to put that into the form of a 
motion, Miss Godfrey? 

Susan [to Martha'], Now are you sufficiently 
squelched? 

Maria. If not, has any one any suggestions 
to make? 

Beatrice. Aren't we going to make a lot of 
money from this play? 

Martha. Amateurs always make a fortune 
out of a play. Your friends are helpless. They 
have to buy tickets. People can pretend to be 
sick and refuse an invitation to a party, but they 
have to buy tickets to an amateur performance or 
else bear the stigma of being poverty-stricken. 

Maria. We will make money, but you can't 
count even guinea pigs before they're hatched. 

Barbara. We made seven hundred dollars 
from Ralph Roister Doister. 

Susan. We made sixty dollars from our last 
valentine sale. 

Clementine. But that was all eaten up in 
three days. 

Martha. At that rate the Settlement people 
eat up about a hundred valentines a day. 

Matilda. How much do you count on from 
Hamlet? 

Maria. We ought to make a thousand dol- 
lars. We'll clear a hundred from the programs 
alone. The advertisements are all in rhyme, cal- 
culated to keep the audience quietly reading so 
that they won't fuss if the curtain doesn't go up 
on time. One old gentleman didn't want his in 
verse and I told him if he didn't like to be in 

126 



DRESS REHEARSAL OF HAMLET 

poetry he could stay out altogether — he signed 
for a half page. Think of hesitating to adver- 
tise your safety razors in Clementine's lyric num- 
bers. 

Susan. Well, if it's immediate money we must 
have, my shoes will have to be sacrificed. I have 
been dreaming of a pair of green shoes to go with 
my new green evening gown, but here are the 
greenbacks for the bananas Instead. 

Barbara. I meant to buy beads for bead- 
bags In Italy — but here's the money. 

Martha [pullingi out her purse~\. Here go 
my coveted silk stockings. 

Charlotte. I'll send you my check tonight — 
a week off my summer trip. 

Beatrice. I'll send you a check tonight — 
but don't let the Orchestra people know about it. 

Ethel. I meant to buy foils, but there is the 
money and I'll fight with a Civil War sword to- 
morrow If necessary. 

Barbara. Now don't you think you can get 
enough pledges without delaying the rehearsal any 
longer? Clementine can collect them. 

Maria. Yes. Will some one make a motion 
to adjourn? 

Susan. I move we adjourn. You are so par- 
liamentary, Maria, but we'll do anything to get 
rid of you. 

Martha. I second the motion. 

Maria. All In favor of adjournment, please 
say " aye." 

Chorus. Aye. 

Maria. Contrary, " no." The motion is 
carried. \_She goesf\ 

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Martha. Well, thank goodness, weVe rid of 
her till she comes back with her determination and 
her rouge to make us up. Now let's rehearse my 
mad scene. 

Ethel. No, we will practice the fight again. 
We ought to go over that five or six times. 

Susan. You haven't heard me give my so- 
liloquy yet. I'll do that now. 

Barbara. Oh, no, we must have the ghost 
scene. 

Charlotte. I want my death scene again. 

Beatrice. You haven't rehearsed me at all. 

Clementine. Nor me, except in other peo- 
ple's parts. 

Martha. My mad scene is the most import- 
ant. I'll do it now. 

Susan. You must listen to my soliloquy. 

Ethel [^high-pitched and shrill^. Come on, 
let's have the fight again. [They all clamor to 
be heard and make utter confusion of the stage. ^ 

Julia [In despair and putting on her hat^. 
I'm going home. [They all exclaim, "What?" 
" Not yet," " You're not going to leave us? " etc.] 
My head aches so awfully. The rehearsal is over 
as far as I am concerned. [She goes. They are 
all in consternation.^ 

Martha. Well, I suppose we may as well all 

go- 



[Curtain] 



128 



THE PIONEERS 

The scene of this play is the first settlement of 
what is now a great city of the Middle-West. 
The time is about 1791. In writing the play I 
have introduced characters and described things 
as I liked to imagine them. If in the exigencies 
of presentation some of these seem difficult, alter- 
ations are easy. For instance, if a larger cast is 
desired, more pioneers and Indians may be added; 
if a smaller one, several of the parts may be 
doubled or omitted entirely. I have made it flexi- 
ble in that respect purposely. The play has two 
scenes. The one in the Indian camp may be made 
possible for amateurs to give by hanging green 
curtains just inside the other scene. If this seems 
not to be managed, the act may be made to take 
place with comparatively little change also inside 
the pioneer's cabin — that is there need be no 
change of scene. Naturally I do not expect the 
brook to be or even to be heard on the stage but 
have described it for the benefit of the actor's 
imagination. Additions or changes are altogether 
permissible. For, in my experience with ama- 
teur stagecraft, I have found not only that cir- 
cumstances alter cases but that cases must alter 
circumstances and that every one alters plays. 

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characters in the order of their 
appearance : 

Pioneers Indians 

Alison Carmichael. White Feather. 

Abagail Carmichael, her The Beaver. 

sister-in-law. Grey Cloud. 



Edward, 
Sarah, 
Little Nany,^ 



the Car- Red Fox. 

-michael The Eagle. 

children. 
Eunice Morton. 

T ' [the Morton children. 

Lucy, J 

Geoffrey Baxter, brother to Eunice. 

John Morton, her husband. 

William Carmichael, husband to Abagail, 

brother to Alison. 

Mrs. Worthington. Mrs. King. 

The General. 

ACT I 

[/^ is late afternoon on the thirteenth of 
February. The scene is the interior of a 
pioneer^s log cabin. On one side of the room 
— in stage directions the right — there is a big 
open wood fire-place. At the side of this to- 
ward the front is the door opening into another 
room. On the other side of the room is a win- 
dow towards the front, behind that against the 
wall a rude bed and near it a baby^s crib. At 
the back there is a door not quite in the center 
but nearer the side where the bed stands; at the 
side of the door and towards the fire-place there 
is a window. A settee is in the corner between 

130 



THE PIONEERS 



the window and the fire-place, a spinning-wheel 
and chair on the other side of the window 
rather in front of it. A deal table and some 
rude chairs compose the rest of the furniture. 
Some guns, kitchen utensils, and strings of dry- 
ing herbs — red peppers, hops, and so on — 
hang on the walls. There are holes — closed 
now — in the outer door and window shutters 
for the insertion of guns. Over the door into 
the inner room a ladder goes up to the loft 
above. A pretty girl of eighteen or so sits by 
the wheel and spins, humming a little tune to 
herself.'] 

Abagail [from within in a mournful complain- 
ing voice]. If the spring doesn't come soon the 
children's bare feet will be upon the snow-covered 
ground. 

Alison [smiling and answering in a gay and 
very sweet voice]. Oh, when their shoes wear 
out they can wear moccasins. 

Abagail [coming from the inner room with 
her knitting of coarse grey yarn in her hand]. It 
is not so much their shoes as their stockings that 
are worn out. I've darned and darned till they 
won't hold the stitches any longer. There is 
scarcely enough yarn left for another pair and that 
is the last of the wool. [Sighing, with a glance at 
the spinning-wheel.] 

Alison [hopefully], I think the spring will 
come soon. If it doesn't [laughing] we will have 
to tie their legs up in hay till they can go barefoot. 

Abagail. They are not your children, Alison, 
or you would not jest about it. 

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Alison. Oh, you know I love them, Abagail. 

Abagail. You take this hard, frontier life as 
a joke but I am accustomed to the greatest luxuries 
and all the delicacies of aristocratic society in 
Trenton. 

Alison. Oh, sister, I left as many pleasant 
things in Philadelphia as you did in Trenton, of 
your beloved Jersey. But I am willing to give 
them all up for this wonderful new land. It has 
been a long cold winter but for that very reason 
I think the spring will be early. There are signs. 
Yesterday I heard a robin. 

Abagail [sitting down by the table and knit- 
ting~\. More like it was an Indian. William 
says they imitate birds for signals. Maybe they 
are up to some of their devilish tricks. 

Alison [smiling and shaking her head^. No, 
It was no Indian though his breast was red. I 
saw him. The color was gay against the snowy 
branch where he sat. 

Abagail. Yet I do not think he had come for 
good. William says they fly up from the south 
and if It be cold they go back and stay. 

Alison. Will says a great many unpleasant 
things. This little robin is the advance guard 
sent by his clan to reconnoiter. He sang to me 
and said he felt the tingling sweetness of spring 
in the air despite the snow, and that he would go 
back to tell the others and they would at once make 
ready for their journey. 

Abagail [smiling forlornly~\. I can not feel 
as you do. I am depressed by this rough life. 

Sarah [from within']. Mother, we can't do 
these problems Aunt Alison gave us. 

132 



THE PIONEERS 



Alison. Work at them a little longer. 

Edward \_c07nmg out, followed by Sarahl. 
But they are too hard. 

Alison [to Edward]. Read yours over care- 
fully and you will see how to do it. 

Edward [reading from his slate. Both chil- 
dren have slates']. " If it takes an ounce of meal 
to make a little hoe-cake, and a boy eats six little 
hoe-cakes for breakfast, dinner, and supper, how 
long will it take him to eat up a bushel of meal? " 
It's too hard, and besides no boy would eat noth- 
ing else but hoe-cakes. 

Alison. Suppose he had nothing else to eat? 

Edward \_grinning]. His father would go out 
and shoot wild turkey. 

Alison. Suppose his father didn't dare go far 
enough to get wild turkeys because the Indians 
were on the war-path? 

Edward. Then the boy would eat some of his 
sister's apples. Ask her for her puzzle. 

Sarah [^reading]. *' If each blossom in the 
spring means an apple in the fall and there are 
three trees, one with a thousand pink and white 
blossoms, one with two thousand, and one with 
three thousand, how many red apples will there 
be in October? " I am going out to see if the 
little new apple trees have any blossoms coming. 

Edward. I'm going out to play. 

Abagail. No, no. I am afraid to have you 
go. 

[There is a knock at the door^ Ahagail looks 
frightened, Alison stops her wheel and goes 
to answer the knock.] 

Alison [calling out]. Who is there? 

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Eunice [from without}. Oh, it is I, Alison. 
Open up, I'm not an Indian. 

[Alison laughs, unbolts the door, swings it wide, 
and in walks the neighbor, Eunice Morton, a 
pleasant, jolly soul, with her two children, 
Arthur and Lucy,} 

Alison. I didn't think you were an Indian, 
but sister Abagail is so timid we always ask who's 
there before opening, to satisfy her. 

Abagail. It is best to be on the safe side. 

Alison [laughing}. Of the door. 

Eunice [to Abagail}. You are so sure of 
Indians, they will come and get you some day. 

Alison. Sit here. [She pulls up her chair to 
the fire, Eunice takes it, Alison herself balances 
on the edge of the table, for a few moments, grace- 
fully swinging her foot.} 

Abagail. I do fully expect them. I would 
not be surprised nor unprepared. 

Alison. Oh, dear. I should be surprised and 
scared out of my wits. 

Eunice. The ones who think they will be 
frightened are the ones who will be brave. [To 
the children who are sidling about, talking to each 
other, half embarrassed.} You children run out- 
doors and play. 

Abagail. No, no. I am afraid to have them 
outside alone. I fear Indians and snakes and ani- 
mals. I can't bear to see them out of my sight. 

Eunice [laughing}. You see too much out 
of your sight I Don't imagine unpleasant things 
for fear they'll come. Run along, children. 

Abagail. For a little, then. But if anything 
happens, come right in. 



THE PIONEERS 



[The children go out.^ 

Eunice. You'll make them cowardly, Aba- 
gail. Where are the others? 

Abagail. Little Alison and the baby are 
asleep in there. [Pointing to the inner room. 
She sighs. ~\ 

Eunice. Abagail, why do you torment your- 
self so always with the thought of Indians? A 
mouse doesn't sit down and repine all day about 
the cat that may eat it up. Perhaps the cat won't 
come. If it is in my stars to be scalped by In- 
dians, I shall be scalped and it can't be helped. 
I am not going to make myself miserable thinking 
about how it will feel. Sometimes I almost be- 
lieve fear will bring Indians. 

Alison. More like the white man's bad treat- 
ment of them will bring them. 

Eunice. In either case worry doesn't help. 

Abagail. Oh, you are very brave, Eunice, but 
I am not so blessed. The Lord has not made me 
valiant. 

Eunice. Well, Abagail, I do think if you 
didn't leave so much to the Lord and tried to help 
yourself a little, you would be much more comfort- 
able. 

Abagail. But our house is so far away from 
the rest of the settlement, and there is the creek 
between. W^illiam preferred this land over here 
— it wasn't my choice. 

Alison. The gardens and orchard are start- 
ing excellent well. 

Abagail. We could all be scalped over here 
and the rest of the settlement none the wiser. Es- 
pecially in winter. 

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Eunice. Well, winter is nearly over. It is 
getting much warmer, real St. Valentine's weather 
and thawing fast. The ice in the creek will be 
gone by morning. 

Alison. Oh, then the Ice in the river must 
have broken and the boats from above will be 
coming soon with supplies. 

Eunice. We are almost in dire need of sup- 
plies. I understood a messenger was dispatched 
from the fort yesterday to Mr. Armatage begging 
him to hasten them as fast as possible. 

Abagail [sighing^. I do wish we were not 
so far from the fort. 

Eunice. Why don't you wish you were back 
in Jersey? But I am forgetting my errand. We 
are going to kill our pigs tomorrow and I came 
to ask if we might borrow your big kettle? 

Abagail. Yes, and welcome. I hear your 
pigs are very fine and fat. 

Eunice. We fed them on beech and hickory 
nuts the children gathered in the fall. I must be 
going. \^She rises, goes to the door and calls the 
children who all come trooping inS\ 

Arthur. You have spoiled our game. The 
boys were just going to scalp the girls. 

Eunice. It's well I Interrupted them — just 
in the nick of time to save the girls' lives. I'll 
send over for the kettle later. Perhaps my 
brother Geoffrey will like to come to carry it. 
\_PFith a laughing glance at Alison.^ 

Alison. Perhaps he would not. Mistress Eu- 
nice, like to carry a great heavy iron kettle. 

Eunice. Oh, a light heart makes a light ket- 
tle. Oh, fie, Mistress Alison Carmichael, I know 

136 



THE PIONEERS 



very well why he is always finding an excuse to 
cross the creek. [Alison makes a little face at 
her, smiling.^ Come along with me a little way. 
[To Abagail,^ 

Abagail. I am afraid. 

Edward. Can't we go, too? 

Lucy. Oh, yes, please, can't we? 

Eunice. Yes, all of you. 

[They say good-hy and are about to go out.~\ 

Alison. Come over this evening and I'll have 
some apples and nuts, maybe popcorn and cider. 

Eunice. Very well, we'll come. Shall I bring 
Geoffrey and Geoffrey's fiddle? 

[Abagail opens the door, the children rush out, 
Eunice is just going through, when she ex- 
claims.^ 

Eunice. Well, well, well, well! Where did 
you come from? [To Abagail and Alison.'] 
Here are two visitors. [The two men, John 
Morton and Geoffrey Baxter, her husband and 
brother, enter jovially and greet Abagail and Ali- 
son.] Wasn't there men's work for you two to 
do without your coming visiting in the afternoon 
like women? 

John. No, dear wife, we felt drawn to follow 
you. 

Eunice. Keep your compliments, John, for 
those that will swallow them. 

John. Well, then, to tell the truth, I came to 
borrow and bring home the Carmlchaels' big iron 
kettle and Geoffrey, knowing how weak my arms 
are, felt he must come along to help me carry it. 
[With a grin.] 

Geoffrey [half blushing]. I was just start- 

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ing out to see if I could find a squirrel and thought 
I might as well come this way with him. 

Eunice. Well, get along, then. For I am 
just starting for home. 

Abagail. The kettle is outside behind the 
house. 

John. We'll find it there then. [He starts 
out.~\ 

Eunice. I'm glad you came. We'll all go 
home together. {^She goes out and Abagail fol- 
lows her, 'I 

Geoffrey. If I get a squirrel, sweetheart, 
may I bring it back to you? 

Alison. If you are in truth after a squirrel, 
Geof, you'd better be off at once, for the dark will 
fall fast and it will be grey in the woods. 

Geoffrey. Then I'll be coming back this way 
with it. 

Alison. Oh, you can bring it over tonight, if 
you like. I think they are all coming over to 
spend the evening with us. Now be off with you, 
sir. 

Geoffrey [^trying to kiss her, hut she evades 
him}, Good-by, sweetheart. [Alison follows 
him to the door, stands there a few moments, 
comes in, leaving the door open, goes to the fire 
where she warms her hands a little while and then 
is about to place a log on the fire when a young 
Indian suddenly and in absolute silence appears at 
the door. He stands stock-still watching her and 
Alison as if by intuition turns about and sees him. 
She is startled into dropping the log of wood but 
otherwise shows no trepidation,} 

White Feather. How ! 

138 



THE PIONEERS 



Alison. How I 

White Feather \^they take plenty of time he- 
tween their speeches, the Indian for lack of nerves 
and possessing a large mental leisure, Alison be- 
cause of her unseen kinship to him^. Me come to 
see Chief Carmichael. 

Alison. He is not at home. Perhaps he will 
be back soon. Won't you come in? 

White Feather. See him. Trade. 

Alison. Are there others with you? 

White Feather [^standing perfectly still in 
the doorway^. No. 

Alison. Won't you come in? 

\^The Indian stands silent a few moments, then 
enters and takes the chair Alison places for 
him before the fire. She stands. He is tall 
and handsome, a splendid young brave, and 
his movements are all quick, adroit, grace- 
fuL] 

White Feather. Cold. 

Alison [closing the door~\. It is. 

White Feather. Me no cold — young white 
squaw. [He does not look at her, keeping his 
eyes on the fire.'\ 

Alison. Mr. Carmichael will be back any mo- 
ment, but perhaps I can tell you what you want to 
know. 

White Feather. Indians want meal. Trade 
skins. 

Alison. Oh, there is so little meal left in the 
settlement. It has been such a cold, hard winter. 
Haven't your people felt it? 

White Feather. Indians hungry. No meal. 

Alison. No meal at all? 

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White Feather. No meal. 

Alison. Oh, I am so sorry. 

White Feather. Indians hunt. Eat game. 
No meal. Plenty skins. No meal. Indians all 
hungry — some sick — some dead. 

Alison \_exclaiming~\. Oh! [taking a step 
toward him/] I know Mr. Carmlchael will do all 
he possibly can for you. I am so sorry. I would 
help you if I could. 

White Feather [looking at her directly for 
the first time], Indians no hurt young white 
squaw. 

\_The door opens and William and Ahagail 
Carmichael and their children enter. At 
sight of the Indian Ahagail gives a scream 
and hurries the children into the other room.] 

William [^ raw-honed and severe young 
pioneer]. How, chief! 

White Feather. How ! 

Alison. Brother, he has come to see if he can 
effect a trade with you. The Indians are greatly 
in need of meal. He says they have furs they 
want to give you for meal. 

William [grimly]. He's brought his pigs to 
a poor market. 

White Feather. Indians no meal. Hun- 
gry. Sick. Starving. Indians have plenty furs. 
Good furs. Mink, beaver, otter, good furs. 

William [roughly]. I don't want any of your 
furs. 

White Feather [insinuatingly]. Good furs! 
Fine! 

William. I can't help it how good they are, 
I don't want 'em. We've little enough grain. 

140 



THE PIONEERS 



We've got to keep it all to last the season through. 
I can't spare any to you. 

Alison. Oh, Will, give him some if you pos- 
sibly can. Some of his people are sick and dying 
for want of food. 

William. That's like enough, but it's not my 
fault. [To the Indian,^ Why didn't you go to 
the fort to trade? 

White Feather. No good. Big chief there 
say " yes " one day, say " no " another day. No 
keep word with Indians. In summer promise 
meal, in winter no trade. Chief Carmichael good 
man. In summer he promise meal to Indians. 
He keep word. Indians like him. 

William [uneasily]. Oh, they do, do they? 
Well, I've always tried to deal fairly with them, 
but I can't let them have any meal now. 

White Feather. Last summer Chief Car- 
michael promise meal. 

William. I can't help it if I did. There's 
not enough. 

Alison. Oh, Willie, give him a little. Give 
him my share. 

William. No, I'll not. You go back to your 
people and tell them what the big chief at the fort 
said is true and that he is a good chief. Tell them 
I have no meal for them. Your people better 
plant enough corn this year to last the winter out. 
You ought to learn your lesson. 

\_JVhite Feather rises and walks with dignity to 
the door. Alison looks much distressed.'^ 

White Feather. Me tell. 

Alison. Brother, at least ask him to stay for 
supper. 

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William [condescendingly~\. Why yes, chief, 
won't you stay and eat with us? 

White Feather. No, Indians waiting. Me 
no stay. 

Alison [detaining hini]. We would be so 
glad to have you stay and share our food with 
us, chief. 

White Feather. Me go. 

Alison. Good-by, then. \^She impulsively 
offers him her hand. He takes it, looking at her 
intently, and -then with dignity walks out, WiU 
Ham closes the door after him, holts it and then 
places his gun which he has kept all the while on 
his arm, in a corner,~\ 

William. You can't do anything with those 
people. They're shiftless. You can't help them. 

Alison. I think you can. 

William. They're all a pack of scoundrels. 

Abagail [coming in with all the children, car' 
tying the baby, and with little Alison holding to 
her dress^. The redskins are all like devils. I 
am so afraid they will come and wreak their ven- 
geance on us now. Alison, why did you let him 
in? Why did you allow him to enter? 

Alison. The door was open and he walked 
in. I didn't let him. He didn't ask to be al- 
lowed. [Laughing. ~\ I suppose he never 
dreamed he wasn't welcome. I think he under- 
stands we can't spare the meal, but whether he 
will be able to make the other Indians understand 
when he tells them of brother WiUiam's refusal — 
I don't know. 

William. Oh, don't bother your head about 
it. He was probably lying all the time. And 

142 



THE PIONEERS 



they're always begging. We're well rid of him. 
I'm as hungry as a bear. How soon will supper 
be ready? 

Abagail. In my fright I totally forgot sup- 
per. 

Alison [bustling about and taking down a 
pan]^. It won't take long. 

[^The curtain falls. End of Act /.] 

ACT II 

[// is evening of the same day and in the 
same room. The family have just had their 
supper. A roaring fire is burning in the fire- 
place and candles are lighted. William Car- 
michael is cleaning his gun, his wife is putting 
the baby to bed in its crib, Alison is just finish- 
ing washing the dishes, Edzvard and Sarah wip- 
ing them for her, and little Alison is playing 
with a rag-doll on the floor.'] 

Alison. I can't get those poor Indians out 
of my mind. I wonder if they are having any 
supper. 

William [laughing]. No corn meal! But 
they'll have game. Trust an Indian always to 
be able to find plenty of game. I can go out 
hunting and never see a rabbit, not to mention a 
wild turkey, much less a deer, but an Indian can 
scare up a deer most any time the way a robin gets 
a worm. 

Alison. Robins can't get worms out of frozen 
ground in the winter. Birds starve to death in 
the forest. 

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[There is a knock at the door, William jumps 
to his feet, strides to the door and calls out.^ 

William. Who's there? 

Eunice. It's us! We've come to scalp you! 

\_JVilliam unbolts the door and John Morton 
and Eunice, and her brother, Geoffrey Bax- 
ter, come in. Both men carry guns and 
Geoffrey a violin. There are greetings.^ 

Geoffrey [/o Alison']. I've brought you a 
present. \^He stands his gun against the wall and 
takes out of his pocket a strand of red beads which 
he gives her.] I got them from an old sailor at 
the fort today. 

Alison [delightedly]. Oh, Geoffrey, they are 
beautiful ! 

Geoffrey. Do you know that tomorrow is 
St. Valentine's Day? 

Alison. No, in this wilderness I had clean 
forgotten it. 

Geoffrey. Will you be my valentine ? Will 
you say ** yes " at last? [He speaks very low to 
her and the others are busy and pay no attention 
to them.] 

Alison. Oh, Geoffrey! I'll tell you tomor- 
row. 

Geoffrey. Well, at least, may I put these on 
you? [He puts the beads over her head and 
they drop down about her neck. He leans over 
and tries to kiss her but she escapes him and runs 
back to her dishes.] 

William [as they take off their wraps]. You 
are welcome, neighbors, but you are the only fam- 
ily in the settlement that goes out at night. 

144 



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Eunice. A lusty heart goes all the day, a 
timid stops at night. 

Alison. There are Indians about. 

Eunice [derisively]. Dear me, I shall have 
to lock up my chicken coops. 

Abagail. Eunice, you are foolhardy. 

Eunice. Abagail, care killed a cat. 

\_As they take of their heavy garments, John 
Morton examines William's gun, Geoffrey 
follows Alison who throws a dish-towel to 
him and he wipes the last dish, Eunice leans 
over the crib looking at the baby, and then 
speaks to little Alison.] 

Eunice. Up yet? Such a late little girl. 

Abagail. I must put her to bed. [^She takes 
little Alison by the hand.] 

Eunice. I am afraid we got here too early. 

Abagail. Oh, no, but we were late starting 
supper. 

Alison. We had a visitor. 

Geoffrey [^quickly]. Who? 

Alison [laughing and shrugging her shoul- 
ders]. A young Indian. [She hands him a pan, 
telling him where to hang it on the wall.] 

Geoffrey. I don't like even an Indian here 
calling on you. I am jealous of everything. 

Alison [saucily]. He is a very fine young 
man. 

William. I've seen the fellow before. He 
is a young brave, going to be one of the wise men 
in the council some day. He has some education, 
been to school and with the white men a great 
deal. But I don't trust any of them. He said he 

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came to trade furs for meal but he came to the 
wrong diggings. 

John. I reckon he was just nosing around. 
Alison. Edward, get the apples, and, Sarah, 
get the elder. 

\_The boy climbs the ladder to the loft and the 
girl goes with a pitcher itito the other room. 
Alison takes down some tin-cups and hands 
them to Geoffrey to put on the table.~\ 
William. They've got a lot of curiosity. 
Eunice [sitting down in a chair and getting 
out her knitting^. They're human. 

Abagail [coming out of the other room with 
her knitting^. The way that child sleeps! The 
way she falls asleep and the way she keeps on 
sleeping. 

Eunice. She's a healthy child. She would 
sleep through an Indian attack. 

[Edward lowers a rope with a basket of apples 

which Geoffrey takes and, setting it on the 

floor, picks out a large one, red and shining, 

and begins peeling it. Sarah brings a pitcher 

of cider which Alison places on the table by 

the ciips.^ 

Alison. Now, Edward, dear, the nuts — and, 

Sarah, the popcorn. Will you have some cider 

now or later? [To the guests.^ 

John [laughing']. I'll take some cider now 
and later. 

[Alison pours a cup of cider for him and Ed^ 

ward brings a basket of nuts.~\ 
Alison. Brother Will, will you crack the 
nuts? I'm going to roast some apples. 

146 



THE PIONEERS 



John. Let me crack the nuts while he finishes 
with his gun. 

[Alison gives him a smoothing iron and a 
hatchet and he goes to work. The women 
knit. Sarah has brought the 'pop-corn and 
Edward and she sit on the floor and shell it. 
Alison is also sitting on the floor selecting 
apples to roast.^ 

Geoffrey [just finishing the peeling of his 
apple~\. Here you are, Alison. [He hands it to 
her on the point of his knife and then the peeling. '\ 
It's a whole unbroken rind. Do you want to 
throw it over your head? Will you name it? 
Will you name it right? 

Alison [getting up laughing and taking the 
rind]. Yes, I'll name it, but I won't tell you who. 
[She looks at him roguishly, takes the apple rind 
and standing in the middle of the floor, swings it 
round her head three times after the old custom 
and then drops it over her shoulder behind her on 
the floor.] 

Geoffrey [leaning over anxiously to examine 
the apple rind on the floor]. It is a G I 

Alison [leaning over with him, mischievously]. 
Indeed, sir, it is nothing of the sort. It is quite 
another letter. 

Geoffrey. It is a G. It couldn't be anything 
else. 

Alison. It looks much more like an F or a W. 

Geoffrey. It is a plain G. 

Alison. If it were a G at all, it ought to be a 
handsome G. But it isn't a G — it is a true W. 

[He tries to catch her hand but she eludes him. 
The others have been paying no attention to 

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them hut following their own occupations and 
talking to each other. John has taken up 
the violin and tuning it now calls outS\ 
John. Take your partners I \^He plays a 
rollicking old-fashioned tune, William with 
great flourishes invites Eunice to dance and Geof' 
frey seizes Alison. The four of them dance old' 
fashioned figures and the dancing continues gayly 
for some time. Suddenly there is heard the whis- 
tle of a red-bird.^ 
Alison. Listen ! 
[The whistle is repeated.'\ 
Alison [5/<^r//^^]. At night! 
[They start apart and are silent listening. ^^ 
John [laying down the violini. The red- 
skins are at their tricks. 

[They are still listening. Again the whistle is 

heard louder. ~\ 
William. It's the red rascals. What are 
they up to? 

[There comes the sharp report of a musket^ 
the sharp crack of a bullet against the door. 
They all start, the little girl runs to her 
mother. William grabs his gun and quickly 
loads it, the other two men seize theirs from 
the corner where they stand. Other bullets 
are heard cracking against the house in quick 
succession.^ 
Abagail [whimpering^. Oh, dear! Heaven 
preserve us ! The red-skins have come ! 

Eunice. You've got what you have been look- 
ing for so long. 
Alison. Be quiet. 

[Abagail is panic-stricken. William goes to 

148 



THE PIONEERS 



the door, opens the hole and after peering 
through cautiously, thrusts in his gun and 
fires. There is heard a shriek from with- 
out followed by the wierd cries of the In- 
dians, Bullets begin to rain against the 
house.^ 
John. Haven't you got other guns to load? 
William. Yes, I have. Son, get the carbine. 
Edward. Yes, father. \_He climbs up and 
gets down the gun from the walL~\ 

William. AHson, the old musket and the pis- 
tols. There's a hole. [To Geoffrey, indicating 
the shutter. Geoffrey inserts his gun and fires. 
There is a yell from without.^ 

Geoffrey. I do believe that's one less. 
William. John, go in and fire through the 
shutter-hole and watch. 

Edward [with a carbine}. Here, father. 
Eunice. Oh, I've got to be doing something! 
[She picks up the carbine.} I'm going to the loft 
and fire from the loop-hole there. [She climbs 
the ladder with her gun and soon is heard firing 
from up there.} 

Sarah. Oh, mother! 

Abagail [moaning and holding the little girl}. 
Oh, my child! Oh, dear. 
William. Edward. 
Edward. Yes, father. 

William. Get me the cutlasses and the 

knives. They won't get in here [grimly} ^ but 

we'd best be ready for a hand-to-hand fight. [To 

the women.} Keep loading the guns and pistols. 

[Alison loads the guns and pistols, handing 

them to the men. Abagail tries to assist but 

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gets in the way and runs about moaning and 

wringing her hands. She goes into the other 

room and comes out.'] 

Abagail. Little Alison sleeps through it all. 

William \^grimly~\. She would sleep through 

an Indian attack. 

Eunice [calling from above]. I hit one then, 
I know I did, I know it. 

[Abagail goes to the cradle, starts to take the 
baby out, puts it back, weeps, and becomes 
more helpless and distracted. The bullets 
crash against the house and the weird yells 
of the Indians are heard. Within the men 
shoot and Alison arms them. Eunice shouts 
from above and calls to them encouragingly. 
This continues for some time.] 
Geoffrey [fires and then quickly extracts his 
gun, looks through the loop-hole and speaks eX' 
citedly], I hit one then in the ankle. He fell 
like a deer. I saw him in the moonlight. [He 
takes another gun from Alison, thrusts it in the 
hole and fires again. A bullet hits the window 
where he stands, he utters an exclamation, re- 
treats a moment, then returns and fires again. 
Alison comes near him, touches him on the arm 
as if to make sure he is all right, then returns and 
loads another gun.] 

Indian [from without]. Surrender. 
William [shouting back]. Never. We have 
big garrison. 

Geoffrey. Run while you have the chance, 

you dogs. We'll be out on top of you in a jiffy. 

John [coming out of the other room and yell- 

150 



THE PIONEERS 



ing loudly^. The whole fort will be on your trail 
by morning. 

Eunice [frorn above, imitating a mans voice, 
and climbing down the ladder enough to show her 
smiling face]. We've got more soldiers here 
than at the fort, even. [She climbs back and 
fires again. There is an answering yell,] I got 
him in the leg. 

William [seizes a pistol, peers through the 
loop-hole, then thrusts in the pistol and fires. 
There is a prolonged yell and scuffling of feet on 
the outside.] I hit one that time, I think. 
[Peers through the hole.] I did. They are 
carrying him off and another one, too. Eunice 
did bring down her man, sure enough. [He puts 
in a gun and fires again as Geoffrey does, too. 
There are one or two more yells and bullets in 
answer and then silence.] 

Geoffrey. They are going away. 

William [after a pause]. They are gone. 

Geoffrey [after another anxious, listening 
silence]. At least several of them were wounded. 

William [rubbing his hand down the barrel of 
his gun]. Good work, old lady. 

Eunice [climbing down the ladder]. It's all 
over now and we must start for home. 

Abagail. Oh, you can't go tonight. 

Eunice. My children are there. 

William. They are all right. They are 
within the settlement. 

Eunice. Oh, they are safe enough, but they 
will be frightened. I must go to them. The 
Indians have gone back to their village and the 

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going In the opposite direction will be safe enough 
back in our settlement. 

Abagail. Oh, indeed they may be lurking be- 
hind trees. 

Eunice. Never fear. It wasn't a large 
band. I could almost count them in the moon- 
light and they've all gone to carry home their 
wounded. 

John. Eunice thinks right. We must go 
back to our little fellows. The red-skins won't 
be back and won't be near for they'd never think 
of any of us going out again tonight. They won't 
be back — they've had their night's work. But 
have a signal ready. In case of need, fire three 
times in rapid succession and I will come and bring 
all the men of the settlement over with me. 

Geoffrey \_to Alison~\. Let me stay with you 
to guard you. I can't bear to leave you. 

Alison. Your sister needs more than one 
man to protect her on the way home. You must 

go- 

Geoffrey. But I think I must stay. 

Alison. No, no, I will not let you. 

William. We will be safe enough now. But 
I will fire the gun for signal if necessary. [He 
unbolts the door and peers out cautiously.^ 
There is not a sign of them. They've had their 
dose. I think it is as safe for you to go as if you 
were walking the streets of Philadelphia. If I 
didn't I'd make you stay. 

Eunice. We would have to go even if it were 
not safe. 

William. But I know the customs and tricks 

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of these varmints pretty well. They'll not be 
back tonight. 

John. Some time later, maybe. 

[They get ready to go.^ 

Geoffrey [holding Alison's hand]. I can't 
bear to leave you. No telling what may happen 
before I may see you again. 

Alison. You must go now. Aren't you com- 
ing tomorrow? [She pushes him out after the 
others, William comes in from without where 
he has proceeded with the Mortons^ shuts the 
door and bolts it. The curtain falls. End of 
Act //.] 

ACT III 

[It is after breakfast the next morning in the 
same room. Abagail has put the baby into its 
crib. Sarah sits on a low stool sewing. Little 
Alison plays with her rag-doll on the floor. 
Alison hangs up some pans and so on after 
washing the dishes.] 

Alison. Where was brother Will going this 
morning? 

Abagail. To help clear away Cyrus Hallo- 
way's new field. 

Edward. It's wet to burn stumps. 

Abagail. They haven't got the trees cut 
down yet, let alone burning the stumps. 

Sarah. Father went away and left us all 
alone and maybe the Indians will come and get us. 

Edward. He knew they wouldn't come or he 

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wouldn't have gone away. Father knows all 
about the ways of savages. 

Alison. He thinks there is no possibility at 
all of their coming In the daytime and that they 
will not come even at night for a long time, if 
ever, because so many of them were wounded and 
they haven't a very strong force now and believe 
we will be prepared for them and they are afraid 
of the soldiers at the fort. 

Abagail [sits disconsolately'], I don't think 
they are afraid of anything. That attack last 
night was enough to make us all die of shock. I 
wonder any of us survived. Oh, I wish we had 
never left Jersey. For all they say this land is 
so rich rd rather be poor and safe and back in 
Jersey. And we weren't so poor there, either, 
but lived like kings and queens compared to this. 

Alison. In a few years, sister, this land will 
flow with milk and honey and bloom with peach 
trees and roses, and you will have forgotten you 
were ever afraid of an Indian. 

Edward. I'm not afraid of them now. 

Sarah. I am — almighty afraid. 

Abagail. Little maids don't say " almighty " 
— only rough men say that. 

Sarah. But I am that. 

Edward. What? A rough man? [Laugh- 
ing uproariously.] 

Sarah. No, but almighty afraid. 

Alison. I am going down to Mary Hopkins'. 
I promised to help her this morning with her 
quilting. 

Abagail. You're going to leave me all alone? 

Edward. You aren't alone, mother. 

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Alison. If Will hadn't said it is now per- 
fectly safe, I wouldn't leave you. But you know 
he truly thinks so. He has gone. 

Edward. The creek is melted and full of 
floating ice this morning. 

Sarah. You can't cross it. 

Abagail. 'Tis very cruel for you all to go 
away and leave me when I am so unnerved. 

Alison. But, Abagail, dear, I promised to go 
to Mary and you know Will said it is all safe now. 
[^She is tying on her hood and putting on her 
shawl.^ I shall not have to cross the creek, I 
can go down all the way on this side. \_To the 
children.^ I am going in the opposite direction 
from the Indian camp. We will all be back for 
dinner. You know it is St. Valentine's day. I 
think — perhaps — Geoffrey will be over this 
afternoon. \_SmiUng and blushing a little,^ 

Abagail. I don't see why you don't marry 
him and make him take you back to Philadelphia. 

Alison. Perhaps I don't want to go back to 
Philadelphia. 

\_Alison goes. Abagail sits down with her 
mending. '\ 

Abagail. Edward, will you bring in some 
wood. Don't go further than the wood-pile 
against the house. 

Edward. I reckon I will do that, mother. 
\^He goes out and brings in a log of wood.^ 
Aren't big log fires fine, mother? In one way it 
would be nicer to have winter last nearly all sum- 
mer so as to have the big fires. We have so much 
wood. 

Abagail. It is a good thing we have some- 

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thing. Wood seems to be about the only thing 
we do have. 

Edward [after going out and bringing in some 
more wood^. Aunt Alison is quite out of sight. 
She runs like a deer. You know, mother, she can 
run as well as a boy can? [He goes out again 
but comes in a few moments later without any 
wood and much frightened.^ Oh, mother, there 
are Indians out there! The woods are full of 
them! [He shuts the door and bolts it behind 
him.'] 

Abagail. Oh, Edward! 
Edward. They are creeping up behind the 
house. They are hiding behind the trees. They 
are coming from tree to tree. 

Sarah. Oh, mother! [Running to her 
mother and crying.] 

Abagail. They'll scalp us all. They'll break 
in and murder us all. 

Edward. Let's try to run for the settlement. 
Maybe they won't see us with the house between 
us and them and we can escape. Come on. 

[Abagail catches up the baby in her arms and 

takes Sarah by the hand.] 
Abagail [to Edward]. Bring little Alison. 
[He catches the child by the handy pulls her up 
from the floor , she resists, but he drags her 
along and together they all hurry out, leav- 
ing the door open. As they go there is heard 
the whistle of a red-bird, followed by the 
whistle of a quail or bob-white. In a few 
moments little Alison comes running in again 
and sits down on the floor, picks up her rag- 
doll and begins to play with it. In a few 

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moments more an Indian appears at the door, 
looks cautiously in, and then enters. An- 
other comes and another till five have en- 
tered. They are in full war-paint with toma- 
hawks , guns, and knives. They utter their 
guttural expressions, then begin dancing 
about, giving their weird yells. Other In- 
dians on the outside keep up a din of strange 
cries. The ones on the inside run in and out, 
break furniture, throw things down, hunt for 
the bag of meal which they find and with 
laughs and cries of satisfaction they play 
with it. One of them catches sight of the 
little girl who has been sitting staring at them 
in fascinated terror, and seizes her.~\ 
Red Fox. Ugh! Papoose. Kill! 
Grey Cloud. Scalp little white squaw. 
White Feather [entering]. No, no, give 
me. 

[The others cry "Kill" and "Scalp" and 

dance about her. One of them, Red Fox, 

seizes her by the hair and they are about to 

scalp or kill her outright when White Feather 

interposes, knocks them away, catches the 

child, and takes her away in his arms.] 

White Feather. No, no. Me keep. My 

prize. Me keep papoose. She mine. [He lifts 

her to his shoulder. The others yell and dance 

about, run into the other room and out again, 

pulling things about and in the general melee 

White Feather escapes, running. Curtain to Act 



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ACT IV 

[It is early afternoon of the same day. The 
scene is in the Indian encampment in the deep 
woods where the eye travels as far as it can 
see among great oaks, elms, beeches, and syca- 
mores, A brook is heard singing among its 
grasses and pebbles. On one side is an Indian 
wigwam with others extending of behind it. 
Two Indians, The Beaver and Grey Cloud sit 
on the ground near the center, wrapped in 
blankets and smoking pipes. They sit in silence 
for a little bit when the young Indian, White 
Feather, comes running in followed by little 
Alison, He runs about, followed by her, 
catches her and lets her go, finally picks her up 
and dances about with her and then sits down 
on the ground with her in his lap. The others 
sit stolidly smoking their pipes without lifting 
their eyes.'] 

White Feather. White papoose! Little 
white squaw! White papoose like Indian? 

Little Alison. Yes, I like you, but I want 
to go home. 

\_Another Indian, Red Fox, comes in, looks at 
White Feather with the child, shrugs his 
shoulders, grunts, and sits down on the 
ground near the other two Indians.] 
White Feather. Like White Feather? 
Little Alison. I like you but I don't like 
them, and I want to go home. 

\^She is frightened and clings to White Feather 

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who continues to play with her, laughing and 
fondling her.^ 
White Feather. White papoose ! Little 

white squaw! 

Red Fox. White Feather once young buck, 

now squaw I [With the utmost scorn,'] Play 

with papoose. He no young buck now, no brave 

chief. Squaw. 

[The other two Indians grunt and laugh, White 
Feather looks very angry. An old Indian 
chief J The Eagle, comes out and slowly and 
with dignity seats himself on the ground with 
the others.] 
Red Fox [again and derisively]. White 

Feather no brave Indian, he white squaw. 

[The old chief grunts low, the other two grunt 
and laugh. White Feather breaks out into 
the Indian tongue which may he whatever 
sounds the actors wish to manufacture and 
the audience will he none the wiser — 
whether they are talking Choctaw, Chinese 
or Chile Sauce, though it is really the tongue 
of the Miamis whose home was the land of 
south-western Ohio. Red Fox, Grey Cloud, 
The Beaver, and White Feather talk excit- 
edly, the others evidently taunting White 
Feather till he gets up angrily and walks of 
with the child. The old chief sits stolidly 
smoking, the other three grunt, shrug their 
shoulders, and are amused. They talk to 
each other in the Indian language for a few 
moments when Alison appears. She is ter- 
ribly frightened but resolute, is very pale, 
and carries a white cloth tied to a wild cherry 

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limb. She stands a moment, while the In- 
dians silently watch her, and then she ad- 
vances a few steps.l 
Alison. I — I — am Alison Carmichael. I 
have come — in peace. Oh, I am not a spy. I 
have come in peace. \_She holds out her jlag.~\ 
I have not come to spy on you, to tell anything, 
but only for one purpose — only to beg — is this 
— is this the big chief? \_To the old Indian. 
He nods and grunts assent.~\ Oh, I beg you — I 
implore you — to tell me — where is the little 
child? [As she says "where" she impulsively 
takes a step towards him, her eyes beseeching him. 
But the Indians do not answer her questions, re- 
maining impassive, staring at the ground.^ Oh, 
won't you tell me something? Anything — about 
her? You know? Is she living? Is she — is 
she dead? [The Indians keep absolute silence, 
paying no more attention to her than if she were a 
red'bud tree or a stone in the brook.~\ Won't 
you tell me something? [Looking from one to 
the other of them.'\ Just one little thing? [A 
pleading pause. '\ Only that she is alive! Oh, 
please tell me that she is alive! [Another pause 
while Alison stands looking very troubled, pale, 
and lovely, entreating the Indians who do not an- 
swer nor even notice her. Then she takes an- 
other tack.'] I have come a long way through 
the forest alone. My people do not know that I 
have come. I am very tired and weary. I am 
very sad and anxious. I love the little white 
child. I would brave anything for her, to return 
her safely to her home. I do not fear you, chief. 
I do not think you will hurt me. Your people 

1 60 



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were hungry, some of them were sick and suffer- 
ing. Some of my people treated you badly, you 
were disappointed and angry. 

The Eagle [at last breaking his silence^. 
Young white squaw no wise. She no see. White 
braves promise meal. Break promise. 

Alison. I know they did. Some of them lie 
and steal and break their words to each other as 
well as to you. But they had no meal to spare. 
They ought not to have promised it to you. 

Red Fox. White squaw fool. Squaws fools, 
no can counsel. Braves council. Young white 
squaw go home, cook, work, squaw's work. [He 
speaks hotly and derisively, while Grey Cloud and 
The Beaver grunt in laughter.^ 

Alison [looking quickly from them to the old 
chief], I have not come to argue, nor to fight. 
Braves do that, red braves and white braves. I 
am only a squaw, I have come only to beg for the 
little child. 

[White Feather appears, is startled and looks 
anxiously at Alison.] 

Alison [turning impulsively towards the young 
Indian]. Oh, White Feather, help me, help me! 
You understand. Make them understand that I 
have come not to spy on them, that I have nothing 
against them, that I only want the child. Tell me 
where she is? Is she — is she alive? 

White Feather [looking interrogatively at 
The Eagle]. Me tell? 

The Eagle [nodding assent]. Umph. 

White Feather. Little child safe. 

Alison [with great emotion, almost breaking 
down]. Oh, thank you. I knew I could trust 

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you — that you wouldn't let her be hurt. Where 
is she? Is she here? 

\_JVhite Feather is about to reply when Red 
Fox, leaping to his feet, suddenly and vehe- 
mently protests in the Indian tongue.^ 

Grey Cloud. Red Fox right. White 
Feather fool. Talk too much. 

Alison. Oh, he has not told me anything that 
matters, anything that can injure you if I were to 
tell it, and I shall not tell a thing. Don't you see ? 
White Feather is only kind to me. 

Red Fox. White Feather fool. Talk to 
squaw. 

The Beaver. Red Fox right. He wise 
brave. Hold tongue. White Feather talk too 
much — some fool. 

Red Fox. White men promise meal, no keep 
promise. White Feather say can make keep 
promise, can get meal. White Feather go, talk 
to white squaw, no get meal, no keep promise. 
Talk too much. No wise man, no brave — fool. 

Grey Cloud. Red Fox right. White 
Feather talk too much to white squaw. 

Alison. Oh, no, no, no, he isn't a fool. He 
hasn't told me anything that would hurt you. 

Red Fox \_who has been stalking about'\. 
White Feather fool. Umph. [He gives a sort 
of angry, nasal, guttural growl like that of an 
animal.'] White squaw fool, white squaw make 
trouble. Umph. White squaw go home, stay 
in wigwam, work, no council with braves. Umph. 
[With great aversion and contempt he advances 
menacingly towards Alison who starts back. The 

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Beaver and Grey Cloud grunt " Umph " with 
some rising anger. White Feather goes towards 
Alison.'] 

White Feather. White squaw no fool, no 
make trouble. Good. 

Red Fox. All squaws fool — white squaw 
much more fool. White man some fool, no keep 
word, lie, make trouble. All land [extending his 
arm in a sweeping gesture] all belong to our 
fathers. White men come, no buy, take. Come, 
say " brother " — no keep word. Make war, 
kill Indians. Take land away from Indians, cut 
trees. Indians have no home, no woods, no 
hunting-ground. White men take skins, no pay. 
Take furs — otter, heaven, bear — no pay. 
Promise — no give — promise — lie. [He has 
worked himself up into a passion and has also 
worked upon Grey Cloud and The Beaver till 
they are greatly excited.] 

White Feather. White squaw no make 
trouble. She no lie. 

Red Fox. White Feather fool, no brave. 
White Feather squaw. Go home with white 
squaw, work like squaw, cook. [He begins danc- 
ing about and pulls out his tomahawk.] 

White Feather [very angry]. Red Fox 
make trouble for whole tribe. White men have 
fort and many soldiers. White men stronger than 
Indians. Red Fox fool make trouble. 

Red Fox [tauntingly]. White Feather no get 
meal. [Appealing to the others and trying to 
incite them against White Feather.] White 
Feather no do anything. Only talk. 

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Grey Cloud. Red Fox right. Umph. 

The Beaver. White Feather no get meal. 
Umph. 

Red Fox. White Feather fool. White 
squaw make trouble. [He gives one of their 
peculiar yells and dances from the two Indians 
towards Alison. They jump to their feet, follow 
him, leaping and uttering queer guttural, unearthly 
yells. They dance about brandishing their toma- 
hawks. White Feather watches them closely, 
keeping between them and Alison who is terrified. 
The old Eagle is unperturbed. This continues, 
becoming more and more exciting, dramatic and 
menacing to Alison, when White Feather begins 
to talk in the Indian tongue excitedly, evidently 
expostulating with the others and endeavoring to 
persuade the old Indian to interfere. Red Fox, 
The Beaver, and Grey Cloud reply with derisive 
yells, threats, and closer drawing towards Alison, 
while The Eagle sits as unmoved as a rock. Sud- 
denly Red Fox leaps forward, reaching to strike 
Alison, White Feather instantly lunges like a cat 
towards him, and The Beaver seizes his chance 
to make at Alison, White Feather leaps back at 
him and as he eludes White Feather, jumping 
away, the latter follows him and Red Fox returns, 
darts at Alison, clutches her in his arms, she 
screaming, and is about to throttle her, when the 
old Indian rises to his feet exclaiming in a loud 
deep tone in the Indian tongue. Red Fox, how- 
ever, does not relax his hold on Alison and White 
Feather leaps back from the other Indian to him, 
grapples and chokes him, he still holding Alison, 
when, amid the yelling and scuffle, The Eagle 

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speaks again, louder and more commandingly. 
Red Fox lets go his victim^ White Feather loosens 
Red Fox, the others stop and they all stand sud- 
denly silent and motionless, Alison breathing 
heavily and trying to recover herself. The Eagle 
speaks to them in the Miami tongue and then 
turns to Alison.^ 

The Eagle. Young white squaw go home ! 
[Majestically raising his right arm and pointing 
in the direction from which she has come.~\ 
Young white squaw no come back. Young white 
squaw go home. [He speaks very slowly as 
though unaccustomed to English and measuring 
his words. Red Fox, Grey Cloud, and The 
Beaver look angry and sullen. Alison turns to 
go.] 

White Feather. Me go with white squaw 
to end of woods. [He watches the three Indians 
scornfully, then, as if in challenge and with a final 
contemptuous look at them, he throws hack his 
head and turns away from them and towards Ali- 
son. She goes, he following her closely. The 
old Eagle sits down again, his back towards the 
retreating figures of Alison and White Feather. 
The other three Indians stand watching them with 
ugly anger and hatred in their faces.~\ 

Red Fox. White child! Where find white 
child? White child alive? [He laughs, jeers, 
yells after Alison and White Feather as they dis- 
appear.'] Scalp little white papoose now! 

Grey Cloud. White Feather come back soon. 

[Red Fox laughs, yells, leaps in the air, and 
runs screaming in the direction Alison and 
White Feather have taken. The other two 

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sneak of in the opposite direction, muttering^ 
as if bent on mischief. Curtain to act IV. ~\ 

ACT V 

[// is late afternoon of the same day, the 
fourteenth of February, twenty-four hours after 
the beginning of the play. Abagail is sitting 
disconsolately in the center of the room, doing 
nothing, looking woe-begone. The baby lies in 
its crib, Eunice sits near the spinning wheel by 
the window and every now and then looks out 
as if watching for some one to come. Abagail 
weeps, covers her eyes with a handkerchief. 
The children, Edward and Sarah, sit watching 
their mother and whenever she weeps, Sarah 
cries, too,~\ 

Abagail. Oh, dear! \_She moans and sobs 
into her handkerchief.^ 

Eunice. Abagail, dear, don't cry so. 

Abagail. Oh, it's very well for you to say, 
'* don't cry," but it's not your child that's stolen by 
the Indians. 

Eunice. There, there, Abagail, I didn't mean 
to hurt you. But it's too hard on the rest of us 
when you cry so. You see you have other chil- 
dren. Come here, my little bird. [To Sarah, 
who goes to her.^ Do not be so disconsolate. 
The little sister is not lost forever. She must be 
safe and will come back to us — oh, she will be 
here sooner than the flowers and the birds ! Have 
you seen a bluebird yet, Sarah? 

Sarah [wiping her eyes']. No. 

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Edward. Robins come before bluebirds. 

Eunice. No, I think bluebirds are supposed 
to come the very first of all. 

Edward. But robins do come first, for they 
have come. Aunt Alison and I saw them yester- 
day and again today and heard them, too. 

Eunice. Then spring is not far away, for he 
is the sure harbinger of April hopes. And after 
him come all the flowers. 

Sarah [looking up with interest and a smile^, 
Violets? 

Eunice. And what else, Edward? 

Edward. Spring beauties. 

Eunice [to Sarah']. And then? 

Sarah. Squirrel-corn. 

Eunice [to Edward']. And then? 

Edward. Adder's-tongue. 

[Eunice looks from one to the other and they 
answer as if antiphonally .] 

Sarah. Dutchman's-breeches. 

Edward. Blood-root. 

Sarah. Jack-in-the-pulpit. 

Edward. Wild-carrot. 

Sarah. Dandelions. 

Edward. Dog-tooth violets. 

Sarah. Anem — anem — 

Eunice. Anemones. Yes, all springing up In 
gay little groups out of the dead leaves in differ- 
ent parts of the woods like actors in a grand old- 
fashioned carnival — the carnival of the coming 
of summer. 

Abagail. I don't see how you can talk and be 
so flippant and heartless at such a time. 

Eunice. Abagail, dear, don't think I'm heart- 

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less, but it is wiser to keep people cheerful — 
especially little people. \_She looks out of the 
window, smiles, and says gayly.'] Ah, there come 
my little rascals. [^She goes to the door and opens 
it to her hoy and girl, Arthur and Lucy.^ But I 
thought I told you to stay at home and mind the 
house and see that the fire didn't go out. 

Lucy. We washed the dishes and tidied up 
everything and carried in wood and made porridge 
for supper and then we came over — 

Arthur. To fetch home our little mother. 

Eunice. You little beggars! But I can't go 
just yet. Take Edward and Sarah out to play, 
but don't go far from the house. Stay close where 
I can see you and call you when I want you. 

Lucy. All right, mother. 

Arthur. Dear little mother ! 

Eunice \_to the children]. Now, run along, 
lambkins, and have a good time. [The children 
all go out, she follows them to the door, and 
throws kisses after them, then turns and watches 
Ahagail, who is silently weeping and mopping her 
eyes and nose. Eunice goes to her, puts her arms 
round her, stroking her hair tenderly, and talking 
to her in a low and tender voice.] I know it is 
very hard for thee, poor thing. Do not think I 
do not sympathize. I love thy little child, and 
Alison Carmichael is as dear to my heart as a sis- 
ter could be. 

Abagail. But you let her go to those Indians. 

Eunice. She would go. I had no choice. 

[There is a knock at the door and Eunice, an- 
swering it, admits two ladies of the settle- 
ment, Mrs. King and Mrs. Worthington.~\ 

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Mrs. King. We came to express our sympa- 
thy and to learn if there is any good news. 

Abagail [weeping]. No, no, no! No good 
news nor ever will be again. 

Mrs. Worthington. Don't give up hope, 
neighbor. They stole the child because they liked 
her, to adopt her, depend upon it. And in that 
case they will take good care of her and we will 
get her back, never fear. 

Abagail. But Alison's gone, too. 

Mrs. Worthington. Alison? 

Abagail [to Eunice, weeping^. Tell her. 

Eunice. Alison was in an agony about the 
child and reproached herself that if she hadn't 
been away from home this morning the dreadful 
thing some way or another would not have 
chanced. And she hoped that a woman could do 
more with the Indians than guns — 

Abagail [breaking iw]. What could she do 
with those savage butchers? 

Mrs. Worthington. Alison didn't go to 
them? 

Eunice. Yes. 

Mrs. Worthington. Oh, mercy ! oh, mercy ! 

Mrs. King. Heaven preserve us ! 

Eunice. She has confidence in that young In- 
dian, White Feather. She didn't tell her plan to 
any one but me and at first I tried to dissuade her, 
but somehow she overpersuaded me. I have such 
confidence in her. Anyhow I couldn't dissuade 
her from her intention — I could only have told 
and then she would have escaped and run off some- 
how, for she was determined and she has a will of 
her own. So I kept still about it till afterwards 

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as she asked me to do. She set out early this aft- 
ernoon and she has had time to get back by now — 
more than time — to get back. 

Mrs. King. I put no trust in red-skins. 
Mrs. Worthington. Nor I. 
Abagail. She will never be back ! Oh, dear ! 
Oh, dear! 

Eunice. The garrison is taking the matter 
up. The general is on his way here now to ask 
Abagail definitely about everything. The rumor 
is that a scouting party is forming. 

Mrs. King [looking out of the window~\. The 
General is coming. 

\_Abagail is much flurried, Eunice goes to the 
door and opens it to the General, a red-faced, 
stout, pompous old fellow in full Revolution- 
ary regimentals. Following him are Wil- 
Ham, John, and Geoffrey, all looking very 
nervous and anxious.^ 
General. Ah, good afternoon, ladies! 
[Bowing low to Abagail.^ Good afternoon, Mrs. 
Carmichael, and ladies ! 

\_The people dispose themselves about the room, 

the General seated in the center, Abagail 

near the baby's crib, the men at the back on 

one side, the women rather on the other. 

The children have crept in after the General, 

and, fascinated, are watching him.'] 

General. We are planning to send out a 

scouting party at once to be headed by our ablest 

soldier, Captain Hunter, who is much liked by the 

Indians and has treated with them a great deal. 

And I am come to ask you for the details of your 

attack and see if we can find out what Indians com- 

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mitted the deed. Was White Feather among 
them? 

Abagail. Yes, oh, yes, he was one of the 
prime movers. 

Eunice. Oh, Abagail, you told me that you 
never looked back, but ran as hard as you could — 
then how could you tell that White Feather was 
among them? 

Abagail. Well, he must have been. 

General. Now, Mrs. Carmichael, try to be 
exact. It will help very much. Try to tell me 
just what happened. 

Abagail. Well, White Feather came about 
this time yesterday afternoon to steal a bag of 
meal. 

Eunice. Oh, Abagail! 

Abagail. I am perfectly sure he came to steal 
It, but we were all at home, so he decided to beg 
instead. 

Eunice. Alison said he didn't beg — he 
wanted to pay for It with valuable skins. 

William. Of course I couldn't let him have 
the meal. 

General. Was he angry? 

Abagail. Oh, he pretended to be good-na- 
tured but he went away and brought back a horde 
of them to attack the house at night. 

Eunice. There wasn't a horde. There could 
have been only a few of them for they gave up the 
attack so easily. 

Abagail. Well, they did come, and It seemed 
like a horde. 

General. Yes, yes, I know all that. [Impa- 
tiently. He is an irascible old person and drums 

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with his finders.'] But what about the child's cap- 
ture? 

Abagail. This morning when my husband 
said we were perfectly safe — and I don't think 
any one is perfectly safe with Indians within a 
thousand miles of you — you're never perfectly 
safe, General, you know you never are ! 

General [very impatient and puffy and hored~\. 
Oh, yes, yes, yes ! Go on, go on ! 

Abagail. Well, this morning when I was left 
all alone here with the children Edward went out 
to bring in wood and saw Indians — 

Edward. They were dodging and hiding and 
slipping from tree to tree. 

General \_with great severity, pouncing on Ed- 
ward'], Children should be seen and not heard! 
Allow your mother to tell her story. 

Abagail. I felt that I could not defend the 
house against them. 

General. I should think likely not. 

Abagail. So I caught the baby in my arms, 
seized little Sarah by the hand, commanded Ed- 
ward to bring little Alison, and we started to run. 
We had gone some distance when I found the child 
had escaped from Edward and gone back, as I 
suppose, to get her doll. We would all have been 
slaughtered if we had gone back, so, trusting that 
the child's tender age might save her in the hearts 
of the savages, we ran on, plunging into the Icy 
waters of the creek full of floating ice, and finally 
arrived more dead than alive at the Mortons* 
house. 

General. You weren't close to any of them, 
then? Didn't look one in the face? 

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THE PIONEERS 



Abagail. Look a savage In the face ? Mercy 
sakes, I'd die right there looking one in the face ! 
General. And you didn't turn and look back 
as you ran? 

Abagail. Gracious me, no. It's all I can do 
to run at all. 

General. When the men came over from the 
settlement, they found the house topsy-turvy and 
the child gone and the meal? And you didn't 
see an Indian closely? Very well, madam, that 
is all. I will send out a company. 

l^There is a slight noise at the door, it is opened 
and Alison comes in extremely pale and tired- 
looking, her hair rumpled from the tussle 
with Red Fox. They all exclaim and are 
much excited.~\ 
Eunice \_running to Alison^. Oh, my dear, 
my dear, thank God! 

[Geoffrey, pale and excited, rushes to Alison 

but gives place to the General who rises and 

advances to her. With enormous ceremony 

he bows to her, takes her by the hand and 

leads her to his own chair. Alison drops into 

it with a sigh of extreme weariness.^ 

General. Now, my dear young lady, will you 

tell us exactly what you discovered at the Indian 

camp and all about your expedition? Shed all the 

light you can on the mystery. 

\_They all range themselves about her in an in- 
terested group. Geoffrey edges as close to 
her as possible."] 
Alison. Oh, I am so tired! [Closing her 
eyes.} There Isn't anything to tell except that 
little Alison is alive and safe. 

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Abagail. Oh I [They all exclaim and WiU 
Ham puts his arm round his wife.~\ 

General. But — but! What about the ex- 
pedition? What did you discover? Tell us all 
about that. 

Alison. There isn't anything to tell. I went 
to the Indian encampment — a walk through the 
woods. [She opens her eyes and her face lightens 
into a rather teasing smile.'] You all know what 
a walk through the woods about here is like. It 
isn't exactly like a walk along the streets of the 
town of Philadelphia. The virgin forests are 
quite different. In the woods there are tangles, 
briars, underbrush, and at this time of year no 
birds to make it merry. I found it altogether 
wearisome. [She closes her lips and eyes as if 
that were all she had to say,] 

General. Yes, yes, my dear young lady. 
We all know the troubles that would beset your 
steps in the wilderness. You need not go into de- 
tails concerning that. But what about the Indians? 

Alison. Oh, the Indians? I found their 
camp at last. 

General. Yes, yes. 

Alison. I met a number of the Indians. 
Some of them were polite and [with a twisted 
funny smile of recollection] some of them were dis- 
tinctly rude. 

General. Yes, yes. Well? 

Alison. That's all. 

General. What? What? Have you noth- 
ing more to say? 

Alison. Truly there isn't any more to tell 
worth the telling. 

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General. Very well, I will organize the com- 
pany at once and send it out immediately. 

Alison [eyin^ him and thinking^. Oh, yes, 
and they told me that the child is safe. 

General. That is really nothing. The com- 
pany will start at once. 

Alison \_hurriedly^. Then they advised me to 
go home and one of them escorted me to the clear- 
ing. 

General [rising]. Ladies, good afternoon! 
I will go at once and give the orders. 

Alison. Indeed it would be best not to anger 
the Indians any further. 

General. I think it necessary to take steps. 
It unfortunately may mean a bloody war but — 

Alison [rising and going to him]. Oh, will 
you please not start your soldiers right away? 

General. I believe it best to deal with the 
savages sternly and precipitately. 

Alison. Oh, will you please, sir, give me your 
word not to do anything before tomorrow morn- 
ing? 

General [hesitating]. Well, upon my soul! 
Why? 

Alison [pleading earnestly]. I can't tell you 
exactly yet, but you will promise. General, won't 
you, please? [Very coaxingly and fetchingly.] 

General [giving in to her]. Well, well, well, 
though I declare I can't for the life of me see what 
you are up to, I will wait till tomorrow. And 
now I must be going. Ladies, good afternoon! 
[With great gallantry.] 

John. I will go with you. General. Are you 
going now? [To his wife.] 

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Mrs. Worthington. We may as well all be 
going. 

Eunice [to Geoffrey^. Are you coming? 
Geoffrey. In a moment. 
\_They all say good-hy and follow the General 
out, John, Eunice, Mrs. King, Mrs, Worth- 
ington, the two children, and Geoffrey goes 
with them, then comes hack and hangs about 
the door. Ahagail goes into the other room. 
Alison, who has risen at their departure, 
drops to the settle.^ 
William \_to Alison^. Are you quite sure the 
child is safe? 
Alison. Quite. 

WiLLiAMo What are you planning? This 
waiting is terrible. 

Alison [smiling sadly"]. Yes, brother, terrible. 
Can't you do something to divert her? [With a 
gesture in the direction of Ahagail in the other 
room. 

William. I will try. Abagail! [Calling.] 
Could you come and help me with the new calf? 
Sarah. I want to see the little new calf. 
William. All right. Come along. 
[William, Ahagail, Edward, Sarah go out. 
Geoffrey stands and looks at Alison with won- 
der, almost with reverence in his eyes.] 
Geoffrey. Alison ! 
Alison. Yes, Geoffrey. 
Geoffrey. Are you truly safe and unhurt? 
Alison. Yes, truly safe and unhurt. 
Geoffrey. You don't know what you put me 
through. 

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THE PIONEERS 



Alison. Not half what I put myself through. 
Scratchings and chokings and clawings by briars 
and brambles and Indians. \_She rubs her neck 
and arms.^ 

Geoffrey. Did they dare touch you? Did 
they dare? 

Alison. Oh, did they not? Now, Geoffrey, 
keep your curiosity to yourself. Some day I'll 
maybe tell you all about it — when we are a hun- 
dred. Not now. Not till this episode is safely 
over, as I hope it will be soon. It isn't yet. 

Geoffrey. Alison, marry me and we'll go 
back to Philadelphia to live. \_He seizes her 
hand.^ 

Alison. Oh, Geoffrey, dear, if you only had 
a little more of the hero in you — a little more of 
the Indian brave. 

Geoffrey. Alison, I am In earnest. 

Alison. Geoffrey, so am I. 

Geoffrey. Will you do what I propose, then? 

Alison. I may promise to marry you, but I'll 
never go back to Philadelphia. With all its hard- 
ships I like this free life of the West. 

Geoffrey. But promise me you'll never again 
undertake an expedition alone to an Indian camp. 

Alison. Oh, yes, I can promise that. You 
see I wasn't exactly welcome. [5wi/iw^.] Now, 
will you go, please? I am so tired. 

Geoffrey. Poor little girl. But may I come 
over tonight? You know it is St. Valentine's? 

Alison. I suppose you may come whenever 
you like now. [Smiling a little wanly. 1 But I 
am so very tired — I must rest a little. [He 

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kisses her and goes. She follows him, throws him 
a kiss as he departs, then comes in, leaving the 
door open, looks about at the empty and rather 
disheveled room and throws herself down wearily 
into the low chair in front of the fire. She sighs 
aloud and sits there a few moments when White 
Feather appears in the doorway with little Alison 
in his arms.^ 

Little Alison. Oh! [Holding out her 
arms.l 

Alison [starting up with a cry of joy]. Oh, 
my precious baby! [The child runs to her and 
she catches and hugs and kisses it. Then she 
speaks to White Feather.^ I knew you would 
bring her back. I was waiting for you. 

White Feather. Today — morning — me 
take baby to save her. Indians scalp her — me 
save her for you. Me do anything for young 
white squaw. 

Alison. Yes, I know. You are good. 

Little Alison. Mother? 

Alison. Mother and father are out at the 
stable, looking at the little new calf. Run out to 
them and give them the nicest surprise they ever 
had in their whole lives. [Little Alison runs out. 
Alison turns to White Feather. 1 Won^t you 
come in now and have supper with us? 

White Feather. No, me go back. 

Alison. But they will want to thank you. 

White Feather. You thank. Nough. 

Alison. Oh, I do thank you — you will never 
know how much. I had faith in you. You are 
good and very brave. You have much influence 

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with the old chief. You will be a big chief in the 
council some day. 

White Feather. Me no like Chief Car- 
michael. No keep word. 

Alison. He'd give you all the meal he has 
now. 

White Feather. Indians angry. Red Fox 
make trouble. Me no could help attack. Me do 
anything to save — you. 

Alison. The great chief at the fort was go- 
ing to send out his soldiers to attack your people 
for the child. I persuaded him to wait till to- 
morrow, hoping you could bring her back before 
then. 

White Feather. Young white squaw very 
good, very wise. Mc go. 

Alison. There must be no more trouble be- 
tween your people and my people. 

White Feather. No more war — peace. 

Alison. Oh, yes, peace. 

White Feather. My people no stay here 
much longer. Go west. Go far. Me go far 
away. No see young white squaw no more. 

Alison \_with feeling']. Oh, are you going 
away? 

White Feather. My people go soon — very 
soon. No hunting-grounds here no more. Our 
land all gone from us. My people must go away. 
Me go with my people. Me go far away. 

Alison. Oh, won't I ever see you again? 

White Feather [with great dignity and sad- 
ness]. No. Never no more. Me go far away. 

Alison [impulsively and with much emotion]. 

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Will you let me give you something to thank you 
for your kindness — something to remember me 
by? [She looks about for a second, then quickly 
takes off the red beads, Geoffrey's present, which 
White Feather's eyes have been admiring, and 
gives them to him. He takes them and as she of' 
fers him her hand, he takes it slowly, holds it long 
and tenderly, with a lingering look at her.^ 

White Feather. Me go far away to the west 
— me never forget — good-by. 

Alison [with much feeling and tears in her 
eyes~\. Good-by. 

[He goes out and as she stands looking after 
him, the curtain falls. End of Act V and of 
the play.'] 



i8o 



IN MENDELESIA 

*' In Mendelesia " Parts I and II form an ex- 
periment in treating the same theme differently. 
Part I is a study in mysticism and symbolism, 
while Part II is purely a little play of modern 
realism. The two are intended to be presented to- 
gether. 

Part I 

characters : 

The Queen. 
Princess Modrehard. 
Princess Agravaine. 
Princess Illacette. 
A Scullion. 

[It is early ^norning before daybreak in 
early spring. The light is dim and grey so that 
things are only half seen. Dark objects are 
blacky the others colorless. And the air is cold. 
It is a room in a moldering old castle. Draper- 
ies in dull faded shades of purple and green and 
blue hang from the walls, and one large piece of 
moth-eaten tapestry and some rusty armor. To 
the right a heavy door opens into a passage 
leading to the great hall. To the left are doors, 
one leading to the sleeping apartments and the 
other to the kitchens. A window at the back 
looks down into the court below. In the center 
of the room a carved black table stands prepared 

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for the morning meal with silver and pewter 
plates and cups. Four heavy carved chairs are 
placed by it, two behind, one at either end. A 
footstool stands at one corner of the table near 
one of the chairs. Three unlighted candles in 
blackened old silver candlesticks are on the table. 
A very tall brass candlestick with a thick candle 
in it stands on the floor near the window. It, 
too, is unlighted. In the chill room it is bleak 
and still. Even later when there is more light 
the sinister silence and dark decay prevail. A 
lean old woman with a crown on her head enters 
from the door leading to the sleeping apart- 
ments. Though not feeble she walks with a 
heavy stick. She is tall and her hair is white 
and her eyes black. Her gown of embroidered 
purple velvet is old and worn and torn and her 
crown is tarnished. She goes to the window 
and looks out.^ 

The Queen [speaking aways monotonously^. 
It is not yet day. Every morning we arise before 
daybreak. We arise before it is yet light, day 
after day, week after week, month after month, 
year after year. It is our custom. [She goes 
about the room tapping with her stick and feeling 
here and there. ^ It is dark within, it is not yet 
day without. They should have lighted the can- 
dles. [She repeats the thought slowly, complain- 
ingly.l They should have made a light. [She 
goes to the table and peers at ?V.] They have not 
yet placed the food upon the table. They should 
have had the meal ready. They are slack and 
lazy. [A servant enters. He is young and stU' 

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IN MENDELESIA 



pid'looking, sloppy, unkempt, down at the heel in 
his attire, tall and lank and awkward. He bows 
low to her. She speaks to him scoldingly hut with- 
out emphasis.^ Thou lazy scullion! There is 
no food upon the table and the candles are not yet 
lighted. Must we tell thee again and again and 
thrice over what thou shouldst do? Thy father 
was a good servant, obedient and humble. Why 
art not thou what thy father was? \_She waves 
her stick at him as if about to strike him but does 
not do so. He cringes and cowers.^ Go. Go. 
At once. Bring us our breakfast. But stay. 
Where is the seneschal? Why is he not here to 
repeat to us what news he has gathered for our 
morning's entertainment? Thou and the others 
perchance have detained him in the kitchens to 
listen to his idle gossip. Where is he? 

Scullion [drawling and speaking through his 
nose^. Your majesty, he is with the Princess 
Modrehard in the hall, relating to her the latest 
news. 

The Queen. Ah I Ah ! She has forestalled 
us. She forestalls us or baits us time and again. 
She forestalls us again and again and again. Go. 
[The Scullion bows low and departs. The old 
Queen goes tapping about again.~\ Our daughter 
knows our customs, yet she would confound us. 
We had always reverence for the customs of our 
father, the King. [She sighs and goes to the win- 
dow again and looks out.'] It is not yet day. 
The light is grey and uncertain. 

[The Princess Modrehard enters from the paS' 
sage to the great hall. She is thin and dark, 
hearing some resemblance to her mother, the 

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queeUy hut is smaller and has no distinction. 
She wears an ugly dark gown designed more 
for utility than beauty, and her thin hair is 
brushed back till it is quite smooth and tight 
on her skulLI 
Princess Modrehard. It Is not yet day, 
mother. 

The Queen. It is never yet day when we as- 
semble for our morning food. That is our custom 
as it was the custom of our father, the King, thy 
grandfather, and of his father, the King, our 
grandfather, thy great-grandfather. The candles 
should have been lighted. 

Princess Modrehard. I will light them. 
Bring me a taper. [She speaks to the Scullion 
who has entered with a flatter of meat which he 
places upon the table. He bows to the Princess 
and goes out.^ 

The Queen. The dawn is grey. The day 
may be stormy. 

Princess Modrehard. Whether the day be 
stormy or fair, it is well to be prepared. 

[The Scullion returns with a taper, which she 
takes from him and goes about lighting the 
three candles on the table and the one tall 
thick one by the window, while the Queen and 
the Scullion watch her as she moves deliber- 
ately, methodically. '\ 
The Queen. It is better. 
Princess Modrehard. Now we have light. 
The Queen. It is lighter. [She surveys the 
candles and then goes to the window again and 
looks out.'} It Is lighter within but not yet light 
without. That Is as It should be for the morning 

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IN MENDELESIA 



meal. [She returns and looks about and at the 
table.] It is all as it was in the time of our father, 
the King, when we were the princess. But no, no, 
no, [she moans] it is not as it was then. 

Princess Modrehard. Mother, it can not be 
as it was then. 

The Queen. Why, why? Thy sister, Agra- 
vaine, hears strange sounds, she looks in her glass 
and sees visions and smiles, she dreams in her 
sleep of what is to come. She makes us tremble. 
We would we were a little maid in the time of our 
father, the King. We were rich. We were 
happy. Our habits should not change. Life 
should not change. And now we are poor and 
Agravaine sees strange things. 

Princess Modrehard. Hist! Thou shouldst 
not speak so before the servants. [As the Scul- 
lion enters again hearing a loaf of bread and a 
tankard.] We have much land — much. [After 
a pause, when the scullion goes out.] If we part 
with some of it for a goodly ransom we can the 
better tend what is left. 

The Queen [seating herself with dignity at the 
hack of the table where the two chairs are]. We 
will part with none of our estates. No, not with 
one woodland, not with one wheatfield, not with 
one corner of a meadow big enough only for a 
lark's nest. Our broad fields and rich forests 
were the hunting-grounds of our noble father, the 
King. We will part with none of it. 

Princess Modrehard [petulantly]. He 
hunted always and gave banquets. 

The Queen [nodding] . For that is the life of 
a king. 

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Princess Modrehard. Oh, it is the cause of 
our circumstances now. 

The Queen. The life of a king is to hunt, 
hold feasts at arms, give banquets, wage wars. It 
is seemly. 

Princess Modrehard. Thy father did not 
wage wars. He only hunted and banqueted. 
[She takes her seat at the end of the table towards 
the sleeping apartments. ~\ 

The Queen. He was noble, he lived as a king 
may'live, and we, the little princess, were his pride, 
his delight. We were very beautiful with shining 
black eyes and shining golden hair and he would 
laugh and sing to us and call us his little princeling. 
Having no sons, we were his sole delight. In the 
dewy morning in the springtime when the fields 
were gay with daisies and the hawthorns blithe 
with birdsong, he would ride forth with us in front 
of him on the saddle. And in the evening when 
he drank his ale he still kept us with him. Even 
at his banquets when neighboring kings were his 
visitors at the table, he would set us upon his knee 
to hear the tales and the songs his harper sang. 
Those days are gone. We have no harper now. 

Princess Modrehard. Because there was 
nothing but banqueting then. Thy father let gold 
slip through his fingers. 

The Queen. He was noble as was the Prince, 
thy father, who came to woo us. 

\_The second princess , Agravaine^ enters from 
the passage leading to the bed-chambers. 
She is tall and slender and fairer, with a pale 
skin and tender lips. She is graceful, wear- 
ing a beautiful gown of silk in soft tints of 

l86 



IN MENDELESIA 



lavender and green, and she leads her little 
hound by a silver chain. Gliding behind the 
Queen and past her, she takes the chair at the 
other side of the table opposite the Princess 
Modrehard, pulling the chair away from the 
table and placing her feet on the footstool. 
She leans back languidly and pays little heed 
to the others. Just as she enters Modre- 
hard is saying.^ 
Princess Modrehard. The Prince, my 
father, was killed in a drunken brawl. 
The Queen. Hush! Hush! 
Princess Modrehard. But had he lived, he 
would have spent all our gold and parted with all 
our estates. It is perhaps well he died young — 
at least we have the land left. 
The Queen. Hush! Hush! 
Princess Agravaine. The Prince, my father, 
was gay and fair and handsome. His eyes 
laughed. If he had lived perchance these walls 
would be fraught with light. 

Princess Modrehard [sneeringly]. Thou 
knowest his death was upon his own head. 

Princess Agravaine. Better a short life 
where pleasure is than length of days and bitter- 
ness therewith. 

Princess Modrehard \_s till petulantly^. Oh, 
thou knowest he was drunken most of the time and 
thou knowest, mother, that he had many loves. 

The Queen. Hush! Hush! Peace be with 
his soul ! \_She crosses herself. ~\ 

Princess Modrehard. He was always either 
drunken or making love to some wench, or both 
at the same time. He had a sweetheart under 

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every bush. Heaven knows how many of his 
children — brothers and sisters to us — are serv- 
ants in neighboring kingdoms. 

The Queen. Oh, say not so. Peace be to 
his soul! 

Princess Agravaine. His soul is happy. 
[She looks straight ahead of her as if seeing a 
vision, and stares with open, smiling lips. The 
Queen looks at her uneasily.^ 

Princess Modrehard [to her sister^. The 
Queen refuses again to part with any of our 
lands. 

Princess Agravaine. Mother, thou shouldst 
be more world-wise — but then thou wouldst not 
be a queen. [Smiling.^ 

The Queen. Oh, if your brother, the Prince, 
had lived, you would not dare to ask us to part 
with our estates. 

Princess Agravaine. I am not asking thee. 

The Queen. If your little brother, the Prince, 
had lived, all would be well. 

Princess Modrehard. Our brother, the 
Prince, was little more than half-witted. It is well 
he did not live. 

The Queen. Oh, Modrehard, shame upon 
thee ! Thou dost cast insult upon thy grandfather 
and upon thy father and upon thy brother. 

Princess Modrehard. I insult no one. 
They are dead. They are not here. 

Princess Agravaine. Art thou so sure? 

Princess Modrehard. Why talk of the 
dead? The scorching suns of summers past and 
the blighting frosts of winters are over and gone. 
Let us talk of the living. 

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IN MENDELESIA 



Princess Agravaine. Why talk of the liv- 
ing? Why talk at all? Why not sing? Will 
not the scorching suns of summers come again just 
as before and the freezing winters? 

Princess Modrehard. It is well to be pre- 
pared. 

Princess Agravaine. How mayst thou pre- 
pare against death? Thou mayst prepare thy 
soul, mayhap, but not thy body. Death comes 
whether thou hast thy shoes on or off. 

Princess Modrehard. It is not death I think 
of. 

Princess Agravaine \_laughing^. No, thou 
thinkest of lands. But is not everything death? 
The scorching and the freezing thou talkest of — 
are they not death? Prepare all thou canst, rains 
fall and destroy thy grain, insects devour it, rust 
comes, thunderbolts strike down thy trees, winds 
blow down thy trees and houses, flooded rivers 
drown thy cattle, scorching suns blight and bitter 
freezings kill, and it is all death. 

Princess Modrehard. Thou talkest as a 
silly old decrepit fool might, Agravaine. I wish 
to consider our little sister, Illacette and talk of 
her. 

Princess Agravaine. Why not talk of our 
little brother, Leomontaigne? 

Princess Modrehard. How foolish thou art, 
Agravaine. He is dead and gone. 

Princess Agravaine. Is he dead? But he 
went with his companion just as she will go with 
hers. 

Princess Modrehard. She? Who? 

Princess Agravaine. Our sister, Illacette. 

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Princess Modrehard. She will go with him 
if we do not prevent it. But we must prevent it. 

Princess Agravaine. Thou canst not pre- 
vent it. \_Laughing.'\ How foolish thou art, 
Modrehard. Thou canst not separate us from 
our own familiars. \^She gazes straight out again 
as if she saw a vision,^ Leomontaigne has quite 
gone away with his. 

The Queen. The little Prince, our son, had 
no companion but ourselves. We never saw any 
one with him, he went away with no one. 

Princess Agravaine. Did he not? Didst 
thou never see any one with him? 

The Queen. No, no. 

Princess Agravaine. Yet Leomontaigne 
went with his familiar as we all will do. He was 
dressed strangely in garments of sinister stripes in 
different shades of blood. 

Princess Modrehard. Agravaine, thou art 
jesting? 

Princess Agravaine. I never jest with thee, 
sister. Thy wise thunderbolts would curdle the 
cream of a jest. It is quite true that Leomon- 
taigne played with him in the shadows. 

Princess Modrehard. If I had known It I 
should have had the fellow beaten soundly and 
chased away or else slain outright. 

Princess Agravaine. Oh, thou canst not 
have such a creature slain. 

The Queen. If we had known of it, we 
should have prayed against him at the time of the 
new moon and burned him in candles three nights 
running. 

Princess Agravaine. Prayers would have no 

190 



IN MENDELESIA 



power over the companion of the little Leomon- 
taigne. 

The Queen. Cat's claws, feathers of the 
tawny owl, fangs of three snakes all dipped in the 
dew of moleswort on the Hallowe'en are a potent 
charm. We would have put them into the pillow 
of our little Prince to guard him from all evil 
spirits and wicked men. 

Princess Agravaine. It was not at the time 
of Hallowe'en, but in the dewy fragrant spring 
when all things of evil portent come. Nor is 
there a charm potent enough to have protected the 
little Leomontaigne from his own familiar. 

Princess Modrehard. There is no such man. 
I did not see him ever nor hear him. [She rises 
and begins to carve the meat. The Scullion en- 
ters with a pitcher of milk which he places on the 
table. He goes out again. The Queen pours out 
milk into a goblet and sets it on the end of the table 
nearest to the Princess Agravaine.'] 

Princess Agravaine. Thou dost not see be- 
cause thine eyes are too full of their own plans. 
Thou dost not hear because thine ears are too full 
of the voice of thine own wishes. 

Princess Modrehard. Pooh, pooh! Silly 
girl. 

Princess Agravaine. The night Leomon- 
taigne died I heard a tapping at the door. [^She 
pauses as if listening.] Didst thou not hear it? 
[To the Queen.] 

The Queen [intensely and forgetting her 
majesty]. Oh, we do not know, we do not know! 

Princess Agravaine. I heard it and then I 
saw the familiar enter — 

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Princess Modrehard [in the most practical 
tone of voice^, I heard no one and saw no one. 
Therefore there was no one. There was no one. 
The door was shut. 

Princess Agravaine. I saw him enter and 
play with the boy as I have so often seen him play 
with him. 

Princess Modrehard. There was no one. 

Princess Agravaine. Art thou so sure? 
Didst thou never see him playing with Leomon- 
taigne in the sunlight and shadows among the beech 
trees and running after him down the garden 
paths? 

The Queen [tremhlin^l. Oh, do not talk of 
these things. Drink thy milk. 

Princess Agravaine. I do not want my milk. 
I can not drink it. My familiar will not let me 
drink it. [Laughing.'] 

The Queen [starting]. Oh, what dost thou 
mean? 

Princess Agravaine [laughing]. My famil- 
iar will not let me drink the milk. He is holding 
me back. His arms are about me. 

The Queen [trembling]. We see nothing. 
[Catching the arm of Modrehard.] Oh, Modre- 
hard, we see no one. Do we see any one? Dost 
thou see any one? 

Princess Modrehard. Surely not. Not I. 
There Is no one. 

The Queen [with a resumption of her dig- 
nity]. We, the Queen, see no one. 

Princess Agravaine [indiferently]. It is not 
light enough for thee. Nevertheless he is here 
holding me. He holds me tight in his arms as the 

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IN MENDELESIA 



little Leomontaigne's familiar held him, as Illa- 
cette's will hold her. He does not let me drink 
the milk, he will finally not let me eat and drink 
at all. But what difference is there? We pass 
into the beyond in one way or in another and the 
beyond is here with us before and after. If it had 
been the seneschal who strangled the little Leo- 
montaigne in his bed, it would have been the same. 

Princess Modrehard. The seneschal would 
never do that. He is an honest man, worthy to be 
trusted. 

Princess Agravaine. Surely not. Thou art 
so imaginative and amusing, my sister, Modre- 
hard. 

Princess Modrehard [seating herself again]. 
Let us talk of lUacette. 

Princess Agravaine. Thou wilt talk only of 
what thou dost wish to talk. Yet, sweet sister, we 
have talked of Leomontaigne of whom thou didst 
not wish to talk. \_She smiles and plays with her 
little hound.] 

Princess Modrehard. It will be well to have 
thy little hound killed. For if it should become 
sick again, thou wouldst send for the stable-boy to 
come back to cure it. 

Princess Agravaine. I will not have my lit- 
tle hound killed. It was given to me by my first 
lover many years ago. As one grows older one 
has fewer lovers and the gifts of the early lovers 
are pleasant to keep about to remind one of the 
time when one was fair and had firm breasts and a 
smooth skin. 

Princess Modrehard. Then I will have the 
dog killed so that thou wilt not be again tempted 

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to send for the stable-boy. [She breaks the loaf 
of bread into pieces. ~\ 

Princess Agravaine. I will not suffer thee to 
touch my dog. My dog sees with me the things 
I see. His eyes are keener than the stupid eyes 
of men. But I will never again send for the 
stable-boy. 

Princess Modrehard [scornfully]. Oh, thou 
say est so! 

Princess Agravaine. Though he was an ex- 
cellent stable-boy. 

The Queen. He was an excellent stable-boy, 
a capable trainer of horses and dogs, the most 
obedient and humble servant we have ever had. 

Princess Modrehard. It was not humble in 
him to wish to wed our sister, the Princess Illa- 
cette. 

Princess Agravaine. She, too, wished to 
wed him. 

The Queen. She was too young to know that 
a princess may not wed a stable-boy. 

Princess Modrehard. A princess is never 
too young to know that she may not wed a stable- 
boy. It was something else. 

Princess Agravaine. It was her familiar, 
her companion, who wished her to wed him, who 
persuaded her to. Her familiar lay with Illa- 
cette in the night and whispered dreams to her. 

[The Queen and Modrehard stare at Agra- 
vaine.'] 

Princess Modrehard. Illacette has been in 
a convent, carefully watched and guarded. 

The Queen. Most carefully watched and 
guarded always in the convent. 

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IN MENDELESIA 



Princess Modrehard. And here In the castle 
before thou broughtest the stable-boy there was no 
one she spoke to. She always slept alone. 

Princess Agravaine [smiling]. Neverthe- 
less, her familiar lay with her and talked to her of 
the stable-boy, telling her how young and straight 
and tall and slim and manly he was. 

Princess Modrehard. Thou talkest foolish- 
ness, as ever, Agravaine. Illacette had no com- 
panion. 

The Queen [nervously']. She had no com- 
panion. Say, again, Modrehard, that she had no 
companion. 

Princess Modrehard. It Is true, she had no 
companion. 

Princess Agravaine [rising and touching the 
Queen on the shoulder]. Art thou so very sure, 
mother, that thou didst never see any one with 
her? [She stands away from the Queen and on 
one side, first with lowered head and then raising 
her head slowly and looking straight in front of 
her as if she saw a vision. The Queen gazes at 
her raptly.] Didst thou never hear any one whis- 
pering to her among the bushes? Never down 
along the walk among the furze? Didst thou 
never hear steps going after her In the tower? 
Didst thou never see her dancing with some one 
In the moonlight over the grassy court? 

The Queen [trembling and violently moved]. 
Oh, I think I might have — a shadow — Oh, 
I do not know — Oh, Modrehard, I do not 
know? 

Princess Modrehard. Thou didst hear and 
see nothing, for there was nothing. Nothing but 

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the stable-boy and him I sent away at once into 
the kingdom of Metchnikofia. 

Princess Agravaine [taking her chair again 
and staring at the floor with a smile on her face~\. 
And so the Princess Illacette went mad because he 
was the only young man here about. 

The Queen. She could not be permitted to 
wed a stable-boy. 

Princess Agravaine. She will wed some one. 
Listen! I hear the galloping of horses over a 
field! 

[The Queen gazes at Agravaine^ frightened.^ 

Princess Modrehard. Thou couldst not 
hear such a noise so far away. We were speaking 
of Illacette. She is no longer mad. She has re- 
gained her wits and come home from the convent. 
She must be watched lest this stable-boy returns. 

Princess Agravaine. Canst thou control the 
rays of the sun or the waves of the sea? Neither 
canst thou watch over one who has a secret ally. 
The stable-boy will come back, as the moons come. 

Princess Modrehard. Then thy hound must 
be killed. 

Princess Agravaine. It Is not my dog that 
will bring them together but Illacette's companion. 

Princess Modrehard. Then, if there be a 
companion, she must be intercepted and caught 
and thrown into a dungeon. 

Princess Agravaine. But this creature is too 
crafty. Canst thou catch the wind? Canst thou 
tell why a robin is hatched out of a robin's egg? 

Princess Modrehard. Because robins pro- 
duce robins, as snakes produce snakes. 

Princess Agravaine. Ah, yes, but why do 

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IN MENDELESIA 



they? Why do they not produce other kinds of 
birds or animals? Thou canst only say that it is 
so. And thou canst never lay hands upon lUa- 
cette's familiar. Listen! I hear horses' hoofs 
trotting on the road down below ! 

Princess Modrehard. I hear no horses. 
Who would be coming here to our castle? 

Princess Agravaine. Nevertheless, I hear 
them. 

Princess Modrehard. Since thou hast seen 
Illacette's familiar so plainly thou must catch her 
for us. 

Princess Agravaine [smiling and shaking her 
head]. That I can never do. My own dear fa- 
miliar will not let me. He holds me fast. 

The Queen [excitedly]. She is talking of her 
familiar again. What is it? She makes us cold 
— we tremble. She may make us see what she 
sees ! Oh, Modrehard, perhaps there is some one 
near her? Canst thou hear or see any one? 

Princess Modrehard. No, I can see no one. 
There is no one. She was always strange. She 
is not one to heed. 

Princess Agravaine. Those who are strange 
see the truth. 

Princess Modrehard [with scornful sar- 
casm]. Perhaps thou wilt wed with thy famil- 
iar. 

Princess Agravaine. No, I will not wed him. 
We do not wed our familiars. Besides, it is 
pleasanter to have lovers than husbands who will 
kill the lovers. No, I shall not wed, I shall ride 
and train dogs and — 

The Queen [severely]. It would be more 

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seemly if thou wouldst do fine sewing and em- 
broidery as other maidens do. 

Princess Modrehard. Mother is right. If 
thou wouldst but sew and embroider and spin and 
weave and cook, thou wouldst have no time for 
seeing strange things and thou wouldst get over 
thy foolish imaginings. 

Princess AgravainE. I shall ride and train 
dogs and love, perchance, and sleep till soon I go 
hence with my companion. But thou, Modrehard, 
thou wilt wed a lusty yeoman, much younger than 
thyself and handsomer, of unmitigated and com- 
mon yeoman strain, and thou wilt bear lusty chil- 
dren and retrieve thy fallen fortunes after the rest 
of us have gone hence. Yet it will be a tiresome, 
simple, yeoman's life thou wilt lead, Modrehard, 
with none of the huntings and jousts and feasts, 
none of the sweet music and merriment, none of 
the dear life of kings. 

The Queen. Who has foretold this to thee? 
For my children must always lead the life of kings 
as their fathers have and none of them must wed 
with yeomen. 

Princess Agravaine. Nevertheless, what I 
have said will come to pass, for my familiar has 
told it to me. Listen! I hear the sound of 
horses' galloping! I hear their neighs. There 
are two of them. 

Princess Modrehard. All this is idle. Let 
us talk of how we may prevent Illacette from wed- 
ding the stable-boy. 

Princess Agravaine. Canst thou prevent 
water from falling down a precipice? I have said 



198 



IN MENDELESIA 



It. Thou canst not prevent Illacette from wed- 
ding, for her familiar wills it so. 

Princess Modrehard. Then, if thou talkest 
this way and thou wilt not have thy little hound 
killed, thou must fare away into a distant kingdom 
with Illacette where there will be no fear from the 
stable-boy. 

The Queen. Not Metchnikofia, for the 
stable-boy is there. 

Princess Agravaine [smiling and shaking her 
head]. Thou art swift to send other folk into 
distant lands. Dost thou think one does not take 
one's shadow into the sunlight of Metchnikofia or 
even Freudland? I think our father, the Prince, 
had some of his pleasurings in Metchnikofia and 
in Freudland, as well. But I shall not go. I am 
employed with my own familiar, let Illacette be 
with hers. 

The Queen. We desire the presence of Illa- 
cette at once, here at the table now. We never 
kept our father, the King, waiting. 

Princess Agavaine. Listen! I hear the 
noise of some one in the outer hall! 

Princess Modrehard. Surely there are 
noises in the castle. It might be the seneschal or 
the scullion. But there is no noise. I hear noth- 
ing. 

Princess Agravaine. It is not the seneschal 
or the scullion. It is Illacette's familiar. I hear 
her familiar laughing. Listen ! 

[The Queen looks terrified.] 

Princess Modrehard. It Is nothing. 

Princess Agravaine. But hear It ! 

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Princess Modrehard. There is no one. 
Tomorrow I shall have more locks and bolts put 
upon the doors. And tonight Illacette shall sleep 
with me. 

\_The Princess Illacette enters. She is a young 
girl, small and slight yet fully developed^ with 
prominent yellowish eyes. She seems greatly 
excited and stands looking at them slyly.'\ 

The Queen. Oh, Illacette, thou art so very 
late. 

Princess Illacette. I am a little late. 

The Queen. It was never our way to keep 
the King, our father, waiting. 

Princess Illacette. Oh, mother, thou hast 
said that so many times before. And it is evident 
I have not kept you waiting. \_She looks furtively 
from one to the other.~\ 

The Queen. Why didst thou not come to thy 
morning meal with us? 

Princess Illacette [with a strange little 
laug]i\. Oh, I did not desire food. 

The Queen. Didst thou only now arise from 
thy lazy bed? 

Princess Illacette {laughing^. Oh, no. I 
was up betimes. 

Princess Modrehard [sternly'\. Child, 
where hast thou been? 

Princess Illacette. I have been with the 
Holy Father. 

Princess Agravaine [teasingly]. What? 
Didst thou have to confess thy many sins so early, 
Illacette? 

Princess Illacette. No, no, I did not go 
merely to confess sins. Sins? Oh, what are 

200 



IN MENDELESIA 



they? One does not arise early in the morning 
to confess sins. I had a more important and 
urgent errand. 

Princess Modrehard. Illacette, be plain. 

Princess Illacette. Oh, I may as well tell 
you. I went to the Holy Father to be wed. 

Princess Modrehard. To be wed? 

Princess Illacette [laughing]. Yes, I am 
a married woman now, I am a wife, which neither 
of you are. The Holy Father pronounced me a 
wife not one-half hour ago. 

The Queen [crossing herself]. Oh, Holy 
Mother, help us ! [She groans and continues to 
sit swaying and moaning.] 

Princess Modrehard. Child, thou art but 
jesting? 

Princess Illacette. Not I. But did I not 
steal a march on you? By St. Joseph, did I not? 
[Laughing ripplingly, gayly.] 

Princess Modrehard [fiercely, turning to 
Agravaine]. This is thy doing. Thou knewest 
of this stable-boy's return. 

Princess Agravaine. No, I did not. But 
ask her familiar for the cause. 

Princess Modrehard. Where is he, this 
stable-boy? 

Princess Illacette [opening her eyes wide 
and innocently]. What stable-boy? 

Princess Modrehard. This low lout, this 
groom of horses whom thou hast wed. 

Princess Illacette. Oh, oh, oh, I remem- 
ber — but I had quite forgot him. No, no, no, I 
have not wed him. I would never wed him. 

Princess Modrehard. But only a few 

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months ago it was thy ardent desire to wed him. 

Princess Illacette. I had forgotten. 

Princess Modrehard [in great excitement^. 
Who is it, then? Oh, Illacette, Illacette, speak! 

Princess Illacette [throwing hack her head 
proudly^. My husband is the clown at the court 
of the kingdom of Freudland. 

The Queen [screaming]. Oh, heaven, that 
our daughter, the daughter of kings, should wed a 
clown ! 

Princess Illacette. Oh, but he is a man of 
infinite jest. 

Princess Agravaine. Her familiar is merci- 
less. This jester is touched by the King's Evil, he 
is not strong of limb, and he has a hump. 

Princess Illacette. Oh, but he is young and 

gay. 

Princess Modrehard. The Holy Father — 
how could he permit it? 

Princess Illacette [laughing again]. Oh, 
oh, oh, he did not know. 

Princess Agravaine. There was perhaps not 
light enough. 

Princess Illacette. We are wed, we are 
wed, I am wed ! And we will not stay here in this 
worm-eaten old dungeon where there is nothing 
but law and gloom and *' thou must nots." We 
are going away, far away to the south, to the king- 
dom of Metchnikofia where everything is sunny 
and all is gay. 

Princess Modrehard. But thou hast no 
gold. Thou art poor. 

Princess Illacette. Oh, my jester will find 
a way and thou shalt send gold after us. He has 

202 



IN MENDELESIA 



stolen some horses and awaits me even now at the 
end of the wood. 

The Queen [weeping and groaning^. Oh, 
my daughter ! My daughter ! 

Princess Modrehard. I command thee to 
stay ! Thou canst not go ! 

Princess Illacette. Oh, can I not? For 
I am wed, I am wed! I am free of thee. Listen! 
[// hunting-horn is heard.^ There, I hear his 
horn now — the hunting-horn that he stole so 
adroitly from your sleeping seneschal. He is im- 
patient. I must not make him wait. 

The Queen. Oh, our daughter, our daugh- 
ter, our little princess, do not leave us. 

Princess Modrehard. Thou shalt not go ! 

Princess Illacette. I go! [She laughs 
and goes. The Queen shrieks and faints^ the 
Princess Modrehard rushes to her mother's assist- 
ance, the Princess Agravaine sits unmoved^. 

Princess Modrehard. Agravaine, do not let 
her go. Hold her, detain her. 

Princess Agravaine [smiling, unmoved]. 
But my own dear familiar holds me. 



[Curtain] 



203 



IN MENDELESIA 

Part II 

characters 

Madame Worthington. 

Katherine, 

Ethel, Iher daughters, 

Grace, 

Julia, a maid, 

[The stage represents the dining-room of a 
handsome apartment in an eastern city of these 
United States. Bright sunlight floods the room. 
Doors open on either side. On the left there is 
one to the bed-rooms, another to the butler's 
pantry; on the right, one to the library and 
drawing-room, another to the hall. At the 
back two large windows look down on the street, 
A canary bird in a large gilt cage hangs by one 
window, a large glass bowl of gold fish stands 
on a table by the other, A screen is in front 
of the door to the pantry. Gay, flowered paper 
with cockatoos and birds of paradise on it covers 
the wall, the furniture is red mahogany pol- 
ished. In the center of the room is a table laid 
for breakfast for four, with chairs drawn up. 
There are lace doilies and dainty china. A low 
bowl of flowers is in the center, a shining silver 

204 



IN MENDELESIA 



basket of fruit at one end, a shining silver per- 
colator coffee pot stands at the other. The 
whole room seems to shine. An old lady en- 
ters from the hed-rooms and goes to the table 
examining the things on it with her lorgnette. 
She is in no way an exceptional old lady, grey- 
haired, good-looking, well-preserved, she is the 
representative of a once virile, still rich, but de- 
caying, blue-blooded family. She has distinc- 
tion, poise, the selfishness of her birth, and a 
front that hides brains or the lack of them. 
She is dressed in a very pretty, gay, lavender 
morning gown and wears a little lace cap with 
a lavender bow over the bald spot on her head. 
She scans the things on the table through her 
lorgnette and converses with herself.^ 

Madame Worthington. There, she's used 
that little blue pitcher again. It will surely get 
broken, if she keeps on putting it on the table for 
every day wear. I've told her again and again 
not to use it. I suppose she thinks it is a cheap 
little thing and of course it wasn't expensive, but 
my brother William brought it to me from Stock- 
holm. [Slight pause. ~\ With the war going on, 
it is doubtful if we ever get any more china from 
abroad. American china is so yellow and coarse. 
Oh, this dreadful war! [Slight pause.~\ I won- 
der where the morning paper is? [She looks 
hopelessly on the table and chairs as one who is 
not accustomed to being able to find things for 
herself.^ She never leaves it where I can find it. 
I believe she takes it to the kitchen for them to 
read. I'll have to speak to her about it. [Enter 

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a very pretty^ rosy-cheeked, immaculate maid.'\ 
Good morning, Julia. 

Julia. Good morning, ma'am. Will you 
have your breakfast now, ma'am? 

Madame \_in a very much injured tone^. Have 
it now? Why, certainly, Julia. I've been wait- 
ing for it till I'm quite faint. I should think you 
might have heard me moving about in here. I've 
been here for a half hour. 

Julia. Oh, dear me, ma'am, you didn't ring 
the bell. 

Madame. You oughtn't to expect me to ring. 
Cook ought to have the breakfast ready and you 
ought to be watching for me to come in. You 
know I'm always prompt. Where have you put 
the morning paper? 

Julia. I think Miss Katherine has it in the 
library. 

Madame. Oh, she's up, then. 

[Julia goes out behind the screen to the butler* s 
pantry.^ 

Madame [talking to herself again~\. Kath- 
erine has taken the paper and I wanted to read the 
war news. I wonder if the Germans are in Paris 
yet or if the English have entered Berlin. Dear 
me, there will be no more French china nor Dres- 
den shepherdesses brought over. Dear me, this 
war! [Slight pause.'] Julia is a neat maid, but 
I do wish she wouldn't wear her cap on one side 
of her head. It gives her a fast look. I shall 
have to speak to her about it. 

[Katherine, the eldest daughter, comes in from 
the library. She is a young woman of thirty, 
has been to college, is nervously striving to 

206 



IN MENDELESIA 



retrieve the oozing brains and fortunes of the 
family, and as a result she follows the tail- 
feathers of every scientific fad that comes 
along. She is fully dressed for the day in a 
neat shirt-waist and tailored skirt and wears 
large tortoise-shell glasses.^ 
Katherine. Good morning, mother. 
Madame. Good morning, Katherine. 
[Madame is about to seat herself by the coffee- 
pot and pour herself out a cup of the steam- 
ing beverage, but Katherine carefully steers 
her off and places her in another chair at the 
side of the table, herself taking her place at 
the side of the coffee-pot to which she gives 
her attention.^ 
Madame. I do wish the girls would come to 
their meals more promptly. 

Katherine. I approve of Grace^s sleeping 
late. It is good for her to get as much sleep as 
possible. 

\^The maid brings in a plate of buttered toast, 
also a platter with an ample supply of bacon 
and eggs and a dish of hashed brown pota- 
toes, places them in front of Madame Worth- 
ington, and goes out again.^ 
Katherine [helping herself to a banana}. 
Mother, I wish you would eat some sort of fruit 
for breakfast in the morning. 

Madame. I have never eaten fruit for break- 
fast in my life and I am not going to begin now. 
Katherine. But, mother, it would be so good 
for you. Fruit is nature's own medicine. Surely 
you could not object to an orange or half a grape- 
fruit. 

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Madame. I do object to them — I always 
have. Besides, what you really want me to eat is 
a banana — I know. And bananas throw many 
people into fits. 

[Ethel comes in from the left through the door 
to the bed-rooms. She is the second daugh- 
ter, about twenty-seven years old, tall, slen- 
der, willowy, sallow, in delicate health al- 
ways and always with an acrimonious temper 
and tongue, but also with a certain discon- 
certing fascination. She wears a most elab- 
orate morning-gown and carries a little white 
flufy, newly washed poodle dog in her arms. 
The others greet her.^ 
Ethel. Morning ! 

Madame. Ethel, I do wish you would try to 
get down a little earlier to your breakfast. It 
puts the whole day back. 

Ethel [drawling in a soft musical voice^. 
Well, why shouldn't it put it back? What dif- 
ference does it make? What difference on earth 
does it make? [She pulls the chair opposite to 
her sister far back from the table and sits down.^ 
There isn't a single thing any of us have to do. 

Katherine. It would be very much better for 
us if there were. 

Ethel. But distinctly unpleasant. I loathe 
keeping up this defunct custom of breakfasting to- 
gether. There isn't another family I know that 
does it. It's absurd. 

Madame. I have been accustomed all my life 
to my family assembling for breakfast together. 

Ethel. Well, then, it would seem almost time 
to give it up. 

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IN MENDELESIA 



Katherine. I wonder if there is anything the 
matter with Grace? 

Ethel [playing with her dog^s ears and laugh- 
ing~\. That's such a funny question for you to ask 
when you know there is something the matter with 
her. 

[The maid enters with a dish of cereal.^ 

Katherine [with a glance at the maid and 
looking crossly at Ethel']. Oh, do hush! 

Madame. Ethel, hush! [Both look alarmed."] 

Katherine [hastily]. I — I — didn't mean 
that — I meant — anything to keep her from 
breakfast. [Katherine and Madame both busy 
themselves self-consciously with breakfast de- 
tails, Katherine frowning across the table at 
Ethel] 

Ethel [still laughing]. Why, she's always 
late to breakfast, you know that. 

Madame [hastily to Ethel]. My dear, won't 
you have a banana? 

Ethel. No, mother darling, I may skate to 
my death on the outside of one, but that won't be 
my crime. 

[The maid goes out.] 

Katherine. Ethel, you are so tactless before 
the servants. 

Ethel. You brought it on yourself by asking 
in that idiotically innocent way if there could be 
anything the matter with Grace when you know 
perfectly well — 

Katherine [interrupting]. Sh! 

Ethel. When you know perfectly well that 
she is insane. 

Madame. Oh, my dear, don't call it that! 

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Ethel. Well, It is that, isn't it? I don't talk 
about it at teas and dinners, telling people that 
my sister has lost her mind about a dog-doctor, 
though Heaven knows I might as well, for every- 
body knows it, but there is no use begging the 
question In the family. 

Katherine. If it hadn't been for you and 
your silly little dog, that odious man would never 
have entered our house. 

Ethel [her voice is always soft and sweet and 
drawUng'\. Well, by Jove, am I to be blamed 
because my silly little sister falls in love with an 
utterly gauche young veterinarian who comes to 
administer worm-pills to my puppy? Poor Fifi! 
You know very well that was the mere accident. 
And that Grace is the sort of girl who will fall in 
love with iow^body, w^hoever happens to turn up. 

Katherine. Do hush! Don't talk so loud, 
Julia w^IU hear you. 

Ethel. Well, good heavens, why shouldn't 
she? All the servants know. They couldn't pos- 
sibly live for six months in a house with two 
trained nurses and ever so many nerve specialists 
every few minutes and a person as wild as Grace 
and not know all about it. They've got enormous 
w^ages on account of it — they haven't missed no- 
ticing that. 

Katherine. Ethel, you talk so foolishly 
sometimes I think you are almost as bad as Grace. 

Ethel. Probably I am. In all likelihood, 
I'm insane, too. You say you have discovered a 
taint in the family, but It strikes me these scien- 
tific days it is easier to find a taint in a family 
than to find a family without one. 

210 



IN MENDELESIA 



Madame. Oh, I do wish you girls wouldn't 
quarrel so at the table I All your quarreling up- 
sets my digestion. I do like to have my meals in 
peace. 

Ethel. Why breakfast together, then? 

Katherine. Mother dear, you need more 
strength of will, more self-control, more poise, so 
that any discussion would not disturb you. If 
you would lead the physical life I advise, all your 
processes would become normal and unimpaired. 
You need more stamina. 

Ethel [laughing']. Stamina? Good heav- 
ens, she has more stamina now than all of us put 
together. 

Katherine. She would be a hundred per cent, 
better if she followed my advice and adopted a 
diet of nuts and took that course in spinal develop- 
ing dancing, and slept every night out on the sleep- 
ing-porch. 

Madame. Nuts get under my plate. 

Katherine. Oh, well, that makes no differ- 
ence — Julia always clears the table nicely. 

Madame. I don't mean my china plate from 
which I eat, but my gold plate — the gold plate 
of my lower teeth. Nuts get under it. 

Ethel. A diet of nuts makes you feel like a 
squirrel, anyway. 

Madame. And In my day it would have been 
considered indecent for an elderly lady to take 
dancing lessons. And as for sleeping out of 
doors, people never used to sleep with their win- 
dows open at all and they were much healthier 
than people are nowadays. You've made me give 
up my grandmother's mahogany bedstead for 

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sterilized brass and I will go no further. Besides, 
I dislike to get awake in the morning and find my 
nostrils black with soot. 

Ethel. Katherine, do you mind giving me a 
cup of coffee? 

Madame \_sighing~\. Ethel, I do wish you 
would eat some breakfast. 

Katherine. She ate a box of chocolates just 
before going to bed at midnight last night, so it 
isn't much wonder she has no appetite for her 
breakfast. 

Ethel. If you didn't insist upon my coming 
to the table, you wouldn't know whether I eat any 
breakfast or not and it wouldn't worry you. I 
don't see why your scientific mind fusses over me 
anyway, Katherine. I am not going to have 
babies. 

Katherine. I am not so sure. Mother was 
nearly forty when she was married. 

Ethel. I suppose that explains why you were 
born middle-aged and never got over it. 

Katherine. It may explain more than you 
think, you ignoramus. 

Ethel. Poor little Grace, coming twelve 
years later, entered immediately upon an exist- 
ence of second childhood. That's it. That's 
what's the matter with her — one of those peculiar 
cases of heredity. Why don't you write to your 
deity you call Freud about it? 

Katherine [smiling sarcastically^. In your 
utterly fatuous way you are much nearer the truth 
than you have any idea of. We are a family of 
four. 

Ethel. Why count Reginald? He wasn't a 

2X2 



IN MENDELESIA 



full-sized anything. You might say we are a fam- 
ily of three and a half — even that is being gen- 
erous to Reginald. Why count him at all? 

Katherine. Of course, Reginald, being the 
weakest, died in infancy. 

Madame [pulling out a lace handkerchief and 
weeping]. Oh, I cannot bear you to speak of 
your little brother! Oh! If he had lived all 
would have been different. 

Katherine. Why, mother, you like to talk 
about him yourself. 

Madame. Oh, yes, but that is quite different 
from having him brought up so unexpectedly at 
the breakfast table ! [She dabs her eyes and 
takes a bite of breakfast bacon. All through she 
eats heartily y while Ethel eats nothing at ally and 
Katherine partakes of grapes and a cereal. Also, 
all the way through Madame bestows reproving 
or shocked glances to right or left on either daugh- 
ter, as the case may be, and exclaims, " Oh, my 
dear!'^ or "Oh, Katherine!" "Ethel," etc., in 
an extremity of helpless dismay.] 

Katherine. I was going to say, though I 
don't suppose I shall be understood, that we are a 
family of four, counting Reginald — 

Ethel [interrupting and grinning]. Kath- 
erine in the role of the Tittle cottage girl. You 
know it always seemed to me Wordsworth's little 
cottage girl — she'd be a little bungalow girl to- 
day, wouldn't she? There isn't a cottage left any- 
where — that she was very stupid and obstinate. 
I never sympathized with her in the least. 
" I met a little cottage girl, 
She was eight years old she said^ — that 
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was keen of Wordsworth because he knew that 
girls never tell their right ages — 

" Her hair was red — ah, very red," — no, 
that isn't exactly it. I've forgotten the next line. 
Her hair couldn't have been red or she would 
have been smarter. But she was young — Kath- 
erine, you are more than eight — you couldn't 
even make it eighteen and carry it off. And it is 
pure stubbornness in you to insist on Reginald. 

Katherine. If you have stopped your maun- 
derings I will go on to explain. Reginald would 
have to be counted, for he lived a year, though 
perhaps mentally and physically subnormal — 
which, however, only proves the rule. You see, 
there are four of us, and I am the only perfectly 
normal one. The law is really so strange and 
beautiful. [She relapses for a moment into a 
heatijic contemplation of the law.'\ 

Ethel. Ah? I could tell that without going 
to college. Normal people are so dumb. You'll 
never come to a bad end, Katherine, you're too 
normal and dumb. 

Katherine \_angrily recovering from her beati- 
fic contemplation']. Ethel, you are so silly some- 
times it is difficult to have patience with you. 

Ethel. You want to throw a plate at me? 
Well, do it. It would make you livelier and more 
interesting. 

Madame. Oh, I do wish you wouldn't wran- 
gle so. 

Katherine. Wrangle? / never wrangle. 
Mother, will you ring for a finger-bowl for me? 
Julia forgot to place one at my plate. 

214 



IN MENDELESIA 



Ethel. She gave me one. I suppose she 
thought it was all I needed. Take it. \_She sips 
her CO fee and plays with her dog.~\ 

Katherine. I think Grace must have de- 
cided not to get up for breakfast. It is just as 
well. She needs the sleep. 

Ethel. Oh, don't worry. She'll come in any 
minute. 

Katherine. And now that we are all to- 
gether and she Is absent, we will discuss the situ- 
ation. 

Ethel. Oh, joy! 

Madame. Why do you always bring up un- 
pleasant subjects at the table? 

Katherine. Well, we must talk about it while 
we are all together. 

Ethel. Together? We are always together. 
That is the terrible part of it. 

Madame [leaning back dejectedly]. If you 
discuss Grace now and her illness while I am eat- 
ing my breakfast it will give me an indigestion. 
It always does every time you do it. I don't want 
to have an indigestion this morning. 

Katherine. I am very sorry, mother, but we 
must discuss the situation and decide upon a course 
of action. We have come to a crisis. 

Ethel. Oh, we are always coming to a crisis. 
We get a crisis the way other people get a punc- 
ture. 

Katherine. Please try to be serious. We 
must come to a conclusion. Grace may appear at 
any moment. 

Ethel. What of it? She has come in often 

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and found us talking about her. Indeed we are 
quite in the habit of discussing her right before 
her face. 

Katherine. But can't you see? She is im- 
proving now, nearly well, and we must make plans 
for her future. 

Ethel. Oh, I don't know. If she is improv- 
ing, why shouldn't she perhaps decide it for her- 
self? Why shouldn't people be allowed to hang 
themselves in their own way, anyhow? 

Madame. She is a mere child. 

Katherine. She will never be anything else 
mentally. 

Ethel. Oh, I am not so sure. Sometimes I won- 
der if she ever was insane at all or just bedeviled. 

{_The maid enters with a plate of rolls. 
Madame helps herself to them.~\ 

Katherine. Sh ! 

Madame [iw a totally different and polite so- 
ciety voice]. As I was saying, I want the car this 
afternoon to go down town and buy that wedding 
present for your cousin John's niece, and after that 
I may make some calls. 

Katherine [in a totally different and polite so- 
ciety voice] . Mother, dear, I will go with you 
and we will get that call made at the Spragues' 
and then see about the framing of Aunt Belle's 
picture. 

Ethel [imitating them mischievously]. And, 
dears, I will go with you if you will kindly drop 
me at the Country Club, where I promised to meet 
Eddy Wilmot for tea. [The maid goes out and 
Ethel relapses into her former tone.] Oh, 

%i6 



IN MENDELESIA 



mother, but you and your eldest offspring are the 
diplomats ! 

Katherine [dis^ustedly'\. Ethel, you are 
positively impossible. Do try now to use what 
little mentality you have. 

Ethel \_shriigging her shoulders^. There you 
are! [Pushing back her chair. ~\ I know I am 
not bright, but then the majority of people are 
not bright. What is the use in rubbing in my 
limitations all the time? You've studied psychol- 
ogy and Freud and all that stuff and then you pick 
on your family tree like — er — using it like a 
laboratory — till you think we've all got the dry 
rot. 

Madame. Oh, my dear ! 

Katherine. You mix your metaphors. 

Ethel. I don't give a whoop if I do. I'll 
mix them as much as I like. Metaphors don't 
have babies, do they? You have us all bluffed. 
You treat mother as If she needed a wet nurse and 
me as if I ought to be in an imbecile asylum and 
Grace as if she belonged in a strong ward. And 
Grace is a pretty girl. 

Katherine. Well, what has that got to do 
with it? 

Ethel. Only that this perfectly awful young 
man fell in love with her and others will. Oh, I 
grant he Is green enough to be a vegetarian In- 
stead of a veterinarian, that he is perfectly im- 
possible and I don't want him for a brother-in- 
law, but the fact is they were engaged and you and 
mother stood up on your hind legs and clawed the 
air — 

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Madame [utterly scandalized'], Ethel, my 
dear! 

Katherine \_in complete irritation and dis- 
gust']. Oh, do stop ! 

Ethel. — And had spasms — mother espe- 
cially threw fit after fit on account of the family — 
great-grandfather Morton and great-grandmother 
Hamilton and grandfather Livermore and great- 
grandaunt Ellis and Uncle Jeremiah Gates and 
the Fitzgerald and Randolph branches of the fam- 
ily and all the rest of them, till poor Grace broke 
down and had nervous prostration. And then 
you say she is insane and must never marry any- 
body at all because it would be criminal — 

Madame. Oh, my dear, please ! 

Ethel. — to generate little insane babies, be- 
cause great-grand-uncle Hannibal committed sui- 
cide — when you know perfectly well he was 
gloriously drunk when he did it and didn't in the 
least realize what he was about and wouldn't have 
killed himself for the world if he had known. 

[The maid, Julia, enters with the mail, placing 
it on the corner of the table between Madame 
and Ethel, and goes out.] 

Katherine. Have you finished? 

Ethel. I am never sure I have. 

Katherine. Because I should like to say that 
in the present crisis — 

Ethel. Crisis, oh, fudge! 

Katherine [looking around at the retreating 
form of the maid to he sure she is out of ear-shot, 
then proceeding], Grace is vastly improved. 
She is convalescent. 

Ethel. She is perfectly all right, if she ever 

218 



IN MENDELESIA 



did have anything the matter with her head. 

Katiierine. Oh, you don't either of you seem 
to realize the enormity of the situation. We 
must make plans and settle everything for Grace 
— or, rather, I must, and you've got to agree to it. 

Ethel. I hope Fate's next incarnation won't 
be in my family. With Fate for a sister I become 
totally hopeless and Greek in my attitude to life. 

Katherine. Grace is recovered and that 
young man has probably been waiting round and 
will be coming back. 

Ethel. You know he had really remarkable 
shoulders. He would look splendid in the saddle. 

Katherine. Grace will be wanting to see him 
again. 

Madame. Oh, she must not be allowed to I 

Ethel. She'll probably do it sub-rosa. She's 
clever enough to trick you. 

Madame. Oh, but we must prevent her from 
entangling herself with that dreadful young per- 
son. We must direct her future. 

Katherine. We must not oppose her too 
much for fear of bringing on a brain storm. So 
I've thought of a plan to get her safely out of the 
way. You, Ethel, can take her for a trip to Cali- 
fornia. I, of course, can not leave mother and 
the business and everything. But you can. 

Ethel. I? A happy thought for others — 
how like you! But I happen to loathe California 
and detest taking care of people. California is 
impossible — full of Chicago millionaires and so 
far away. If one could travel in Italy now — 
but, no, not even Italy would tempt me. [She 
leans over and picks up the mail which her mother 

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has paid no attention to, and opens one letter^ 
starts in surprise and keeps the enclosure in her 
hand from this on to the end.^ Of course, one 
can't travel in Italy now because of this detestable 
war, but not even Italy would tempt me under such 
circumstances. 

Katherine. Well, would you consider Pan- 
ama? 

Ethel. I understand they're not showing 
them this season. 

Katherine. Ethel, you understand what I 
mean well enough. I don't mean hats. 

Ethel. But why go to Panama if one can't 
buy hats? No, I wouldn't consider anything. I 
don't want to go away from Mendelesia, that dear 
city of brotherly sin. Why should I just as it is 
getting pleasant at the Country Club? Anyhow, 
Grace seems perfectly happy. I never saw her so 
cheerful and larky as she has been this last week. 
Why, she has been just full of spirits. 

Katherine. A very bad sign indeed. 

Ethel \_a slight noise is heard^. Listen. 
Some one is coming. 

Katherine. One of the maids in the hall. 
[A door is closed. They listen. Steps are heard. 
In a few moments Grace enters dressed for the 
street. She is a very pretty girl of eighteen, 
shorter than Ethel, slenderer than Katherine, smil- 
ing, excited, and jumpy. '\ 

Madame. Why, my dear, are you going out? 

Grace [smiling and shaking her head'\. Oh, 
no, I've been. [She goes to the window and looks 
out.'] 

Madame. What, so early? 

220 



IN MENDELESIA 



Grace. Yes. 

Ethel. What came over the spirit of your 
dream? You don't usually delight to roam 
abroad in the spring dawn. 

Grace. Oh, even you would for once. 

Ethel. One can do anything once. 

Grace. Oh I [She waves delightedly to some 
one in the street below.^ 

Katherine. Grace, you didn't go without 
your breakfast? 

Grace. I wasn't hungry. It was all right. 

Madame. Your nurse oughtn't to let you go 
without your breakfast. 

Katherine. Where have you been? 

Grace. To early church. [She waves 
again. '\ 

Katherine. Did your nurse take you? 

Grace [giggling and shaking her head]. No. 

Katherine. Did you go alone? 

Grace [still giggling and again shaking her 
head]. No. 

Katherine. Then who was with you? 

Grace [turning from the window and facing 
them. She is smiling, gay, excited, with a bright 
light in her eyes]. My husband. I'm married! 
[She jumps up and down, waving her hands and 
laughing as if she had a great joke on them.] 

Madame [screaming]. Oh! My child! 

Katherine [jumping to her feet], Grace! 

Ethel [lazily]. Well, by Jove! 

Grace. Yes, I'm married. I'm of age, you 
know. And we thought we wouldn't upset you 
all — you see I remember perfectly the tremen- 
dous fuss you made the last time — so he got the 

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license and everything on Saturday and we were 
married just now at the Little Church of the 
Angels. 

Ethel. Devils! 

Madame [swaying and groaning violently as if 
she were going to faint or have a fit]. Oh, my 
child! My child! 

Grace. Now don't carry on this time because 
it's no use. It's done. And he's the funniest boy 
in the world. He'll amuse you no end. You 
don't have to buy a phonograph or go to the 
vaudeville if you've got him. 

Katherine. Whom are you talking about? 

Grace. My husband. We're on our way to 
Atlantic City to spend our honeymoon at the 
Marlborough-Blenheim. I just dropped in to tell 
you because I hate writing letters. There. I al- 
most forgot to give you my new name so you will 
know our address. It is Mrs. Arthur Hart, the 
Marlborough-Blenheim, Atlantic City, New Jer- 
sey. \_Slowly and with much emphasis and unc- 
tion.] 

Katherine. Arthur Hart. But that isn't the 
name of the veterinarian? 

Grace [laughing]. Of course not. Did you 
imagine I was still caring for that idiot? Oh, I 
got quite over him long ago. 

Ethel. Apparently he got over it, too, for 
here are his wedding-cards that just came in the 
mail. [She shows the paper she has had in her 
hand since she opened the mail.] 

Grace. How awfully funny ! 

Ethel. Horrid, printed things — sent to us 
for spite probably. 

222 



IN MENDELESIA 



\_Madame continues to moan and weep slightly 
at intervals, looking from one to the other of 
her daughters and exclaiming every now and 
then, " Oh, my dear! "] 

Katherine \_who has not taken her eyes from 
her youngest sister^. But, Grace, who is this 
man? 

Grace. Well, his name Is Arthur Hart, he^s 
twenty-one and he's an Englishman. He used to 
do songs and dances in London music halls. 
They call him Harty Art — English cockney, you 
know. [^Laughing uproariously.^ He's so ludi- 
crous. He was one of the entertainers, doing 
funny songs and dances and all kinds of stunts, at 
the Rochester Fields' very outre party a week ago, 
and it was there I saw him and fell in love with 
him and — well, we've been meeting in the park 
ever since. 

Madame [hoarsely^. Where was your nurse? 

Grace. Oh, we tipped her to keep her out 
of the way. She left for California this morn- 
ing. 

Ethel. Another reason for staying away 
from California. 

Madame. Traitress ! 

Grace. You'll have to send us a lot of money 
to the Marlborough-Blenheim, for of course 
Arthur will have to give up his work in the caba- 
rets now — you wouldn't want your son to keep 
on there — and he's so awfully gay and jolly and 
free with money. He'll need heaps and heaps of 
It to keep him going. And besides, he's got a 
little touch of tuberculosis. 

Katherine [groaning]. Oh I 

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Ethel. This is a million times worse than the 
other. 

Grace. I am not going to kiss you good-by. 
You would just make a scene. \_An automobile is 
heard honking in the street below.^ There is 
Arthur's horn now. [She starts to go.^ 

Katherine. Grace! Wait! You mustn't do 
this thing! 

Grace. But I have done it. 
[Grace goes^ Katherine rushes to her, pulling 
her hack from the door and they have a little 
tussle. Madame screams^ moans, shakes, 
and seems to he fainting or collapsing in a 
hysterical fit, so Katherine relinquishes her 
hold on Grace and hastens to her mother's 
assistance. Ethel sits calmly through it all, 
nursing Fifi.'] 
Grace. Let go of me ! 

Katherine. Ethel, do something! Catch 
her, hold her, keep her from going. Do some- 
thing! 

Grace. She can't. 

Ethel. But I never do anything. What is 
the use? 

[The honk of the automobile horn is heard 
again. Grace rushes out, Katherine supports 
her mother, who leans against her groaning, 
and Ethel sits unmoved in her chair. Cur- 
tain.] 



224 



THE DRYAD 

characters 

The Dryad. 
The Peddler. 
Jen. 

[The scene is an open square in a city. An 
ancient market-house which originally occupied 
the space, was some half century ago transuh' 
stantiated into a huge bronze fountain and its 
setting. The square is all heavily paved in 
stone, three high stone steps up from the street 
level, extends the distance of the city block and 
is perhaps a half block wide. Solid fronts of 
buildings face it with their glass windows as if 
with spectacled eyes watching for what unto- 
ward gambols may occur on this possible stage. 
At one end of the square a great building stands, 
a clock in its high tower watching, too, from its 
eerie position. The fountain consists mainly of 
heavy female figures and heavy boys on the high 
central pedestal and on the massive stone rim, 
all pouring streams of water into the great basin 
from their massive mouths or hair or fingers. 
A few old sycamore trees, stunted, gnarled, and 
blackened — city trees — have been left, relics 
of a time earlier than the 7narket-hoiise even. 
It is the first of November and the branches of 

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the sycamore trees wave and shiver and knock 
together in the vigor of a wind that leaps down 
the street or of one, particularly athletic, that 
springs from an alley opposite like a Merry 
Andrew. One tree has suffered more than the 
others at the hands of the elements and of men, 
but at the same time it is more beautiful in its 
picturesque gnarls and curves and twists, the 
manifestation of its strong striving to live. 
The cry of the wind is in it like a wild thing, 
seeming to he the tree's own cry, for it is just 
opposite the alley, and its branches beat madly, 
A workman comes up with two axes and a rope. 
He looks at the trees, gives the old one a hack 
with his ax, then throws down his tools and 
goes away. At once a cloudy figure slips out 
of the tree from behind. She is in filmy 
draperies — what would be called chiffon in a 
Fifth Avenue shop — not of green as might be 
supposed, but of shades of rose and gray. She 
is tall and young and slender and light with 
long graceful limbs and long fingers. Her 
brown hair is drawn in nearly a straight line 
across her forehead parallel to her level brows 
which gives her face almost a childish contour, 
and her eyes are blue. She stands quiet, shiver- 
ing a little, lays her hand gently on the tree and 
when she speaks her voice has the rich resonance 
of a finely tempered golden bowl.'} 

Dryad. Old tree ! 

IThe tree bends and creaks and 
quivers and she looks at it kindly 
up into its branches,} 
226 



THE DRYAD 



Dryad. Old tree ! I am thy soul. I come to 

thee and out of thee. 
I heard thy call, thy prayer, 
And from the uttermost forests I 

would come to thee, 
But I was here within. 
For long and long ago I was thy soul 

and wandered all about 
Until that crafty Indian sunk his 

tomahawk into thy bark — 
Dost thou remember, tree? — 
And I was charmed and held in sleep 

within 
Till now the charm is broken by that 

woodman's ax 
And I may come to thee. 
Old tree, thou art my chosen one, 
For thy desire of life has been the 

keenest. 
Thy struggle for joy the strongest, 
I love thee best, old tree, 
For the gay life in thee 
That they could not suppress. 
But, by Bacchus, it is a strange place 
That thou hast called me to I 
Where is the grass? 
I know that it is drear November, 
But down in the little valley 
The grass is tangled and thick and not 

yet dried. 
Not brave and brilliant as it is in 

spring, 
Yet emerald still from its green veins, 

and soft. 
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But here — where is my grass ? {^She 

demands passionately.'] 
Bare, stark little stems of grace, 

straight risen from the sod 
Which mingle their roots with thine 
— ah, no! \_She cries out like 
the cry of the wind.] 
I have forgot. This is not 
That darling valley of love 
Where on the hillside above 
Rose bushes are green and red, 
Gnome dusted and firefly fed. 
Dear little Christmas trees of the 
Hallowe'en. \^She smiles at the 
thought of them and then, hear- 
ing something, she stands listen- 
ing.'] 
I hear — I hear the splashing of the 

brook. 
It must be somewhere near, old tree, 
This stony place must end somewhere 

in grass, 
And there the ripples pass 
Beneath. [^She looks about in the 
square that has now become 
lighted with electricity, of course, 
and then behind her she spies the 
fountain.] 
Was it this I heard? Is this my 

brook? 
My poor, imprisoned, accursed little 

brook? 
And what are these? 
Ah, naiads, perchance? \^She goes 
228 



THE DRYAD 



to the nearest massive bronze 
figure and stands respectfully 
near i^] 

All hail ! [She waits expectantly a 
moment and then reiterates 
more politely still.~\ 

All hail I [Receiving no response 
she looks bewildered, then 
amazed, cautiously watches the 
figure as an animal might, and 
at last goes to it and touches it 
furtively, withdrawing quickly,'] 

Cold! 

Some god has frozen her to stone. 

The others, too? [She glides about 
the fountain touching a number 
of the figures and saying after 
each experiment^ " Ah, cold ! " 
Cold, too! " She goes back to 
the tree.] 

Some god has cursed them all, old 
tree. 

This is a deterrent place for thee and 
me to live. 

The stone ground chills my feet, [She 
stands first on one then on the 
other,] 

And I am frightened by those strange 
straight cliffs 

With queer, square lanterns hanging 
on their sides. [Pointing to the 
big buildings,] 

Are there caves within? 

Are they the haunts 

^2() 



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Of the Cyclops, of Fafner, or 

Of Conor mac Nessa? 

I am afraid, my tree ! 

I fear 

Those balls of fire that hang in spaced 
mid-air. 

There is no soft and jocund life, 

A bane lies on the place, 

It is cold and dead. \^She shivers, 
draws her filmy veils up close 
round her shoulders, and leans 
against the tree.^ 

But I, old tree, and thee are one. 

We live or die together. [She stares 
out beyond the immediate lights 
and into the farther lights of the 
street where automobiles are 
passing, and the sidewalk where 
cold people hurry along.^ 

But these? Surely these are crea- 
tures. 

They move. They are men or gods, 

Trojans, Fianna, or Greeks, 

At least they are alive, praise be to 
Pan! [She starts impulsively 
towards the street and right at 
the edge of the esplanade her at- 
tention is attracted by a young 
fellow who has just come up with 
a push-cart. He is a curly- 
haired, dreamy-eyed, plump, and 
prosperous young Greek. On 
his cart is an assortment of 
candy, pea-nuts, cracker-jack, 
230 



THE DRYAD 



chewing-gum, all-day suckers, 
and so on. Interest and delight 
take fire in the dryad's eyes and 
she approaches him.'\ 

All hail! 

\^The Peddler looks at her in abso- 
lute astonishment, drops his 
mouth wide open, rubs his eyes 
as if rubbing them awake, then 
gazes at her again. She smiles, 
hows in what a mythological 
person might mean for a cour- 
tesy, waves her arms, and 
throws him a kiss.'\ 

Joy be with thee ! 

For the love o' God. 

Which God? 

There ain't but one. 
rowing back her head with laughter^. 

Oh, thou funny creature, is there not? 

Art thou a Greek? 

Yes. 

From Lesbos? 

My father was. He got me in New 
York. 

I do not know New York. 

It's a great place. 

You journey there by sea? 

Well, that depends. From here you 
take a train, 

Or hoof It. 

Oh! Thou art, perchance, a faun? 
Hast pointed ears? 

Well, I should worry. 
231 



Peddler. 
Dryad. 
Peddler. 
Dryad \_th 



Peddler. 

Dryad. 

Peddler. 

Dryad. 

Peddler. 

Dryad. 

Peddler. 



Dryad. 
Peddler. 



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l^She examines his ears carefully, 
pushing back his cap and lifting 
his curls. He grins delightedly 
at her touch.^ 
Dryad. Thou hast the ears of men. 
Peddler. Well, sure. Why not? 
Dryad. Thy feet — are hoofs? [She asks 
expectantly, with sweetly smiling 
eyes.] 
Peddler. I ain't no horse. What are you giv- 
ing me ? 
\_She leans over and examines his 
feety pulling up his ill-fitting and 
haggy trousers the better to see 
his shoes.] 
Dryad. Thou hast not hoofs — and yet 

Thy sandals are a strange unholy 
sight. \_She looks at them sadly, 
disgustedly.] 
Peddler [lifting his foot with its disreputable 
shoe high into the air and wav- 
ing it and laughing]. Me? In 
winter? You bet you not. 
I'd catch a cold and croak or if I 

didn't, 
The boys would run me out. 
Say, you, you can't fool me, this is a 
play. 
[They stand apart and each drops 
away several paces.] 
Dryad [solemnly]. Thou art a man. 
Peddler [grinning]. You bet I am. You are a 

movie girl. 
Dryad. Thou art a man and I a dryad but 

232 



THE DRYAD 



I love thee. [Her expression of al- 
, most unhappy earnestness dawns 

into a blessed smile. The Ped- 
dler jumps and straightens him- 
self up in gravity.^ 
Peddler. I've got a girl. 
Dryad. I love thee. 
Peddler. She's got a temper. 
Dryad. I love thee. 
Peddler. She won't let you. 
Dryad. I love thee. \_As she speaks, she ap- 
proaches him, smiling in her joy 
and admiration of him. He 
braces himself rather stiffly, 
looking at her with apprehension 
at first, then surlily gazing 
straight ahead.~\ 
Peddler. Go way! 

[She touches him, sliding her hand 
down his arm and about his 
shoulders, passing it about his 
neck, as it were sniffing him with 
her fingers, getting acquainted.^ 
Go way! 
ery low]. I love thee. 

[She feels his hair, his ears, eyes 
and eye-brows, nose, mouth, 
chin. Grace is all of each ges- 
ture and each gesture a caress. 
As she touches him here and 
there she speaks.^ 
Dryad. I love thy hair — I love thine ears — 
and eyes — and brows, 
Thy mouth, thy chin. 

233 



Peddler. 
Dryad [v 



MORE SHORT PLAYS 



\_When she had first touched his 
hair, he had repeated, " Go 
way!" but under the influence 
of her fingers his dogged resist- 
ance melts slowly until a satis- 
fied grin spreads over his coun- 
tenance and he turns his pleased 
eyes upon her.~\ 
Peddler. Gee, but you are some kid ! 
Dryad. No, no, a dryad I. \_Shaking her 

head.'] 
Peddler. By golly, you're a peach! \^Siill 

more admiringly.] 
Dryad. Fruit of the tree, nay, but the tree it- 
self. [Shrugging her shoul- 
ders.] 
Peddler. You give me funny talk, but, gee. 

You ain't so slow ! 
Dryad. Love is always quick, it is alive. 

Only the dead are slow. Whatever 
is slow, is not love. 
Peddler. L guess that's right. Jen, she was 
slow 
A-making up her mind, 
Jen — that's my girl — she had an- 
other guy 
And she was going to see which saved 

the most 
And which got drunk. I balled him 

out — but now — 
Gee, but you're slick! 
Dryad. I love thee. 
Peddler. You don't care if I drink? 

234 



THE DRYAD 



Dryad. I love thee, dear. The dewy drops 
of water 
From Conla's well or the Fons Ban- 

dusium 
Will bless thy lips the sweeter for my 
kisses. 
Peddler. Aw, what's your guff ? I ain't a-talk- 
ing none 
About just water. I like the suds, 
But Jen's so damn particler. 
Dryad. I love thee. 
Peddler. You're the stuff! 

\_She looks at him enchantingly and 
he beams at her in glad satisfac- 
tion. He takes her in his arms 
and kisses her, when a girl rushes 
up the steps to them and screams 
at themJ\ 
Jen. You! 

\_The Peddler lets go the Dryad 
and stands apart, half sheepish, 
half defiant. ~\ 
Peddler. Hello, Jen. 
Jen. Who's that? 

Peddler. It's just a movie girl. 
Jen. Well, you ain't no actor. 

Peddler. No. Sometimes I wisht I was. 
Jen. Look here, you stop your guff and 

come along with me. 
Peddler. I can^t leave the cart and can't move 
it just now, 
There's trade a-coming sure, 
It always comes this time o' evening, 

235 



MORE SHORT PLAYS 



I've got to stick right here. 
You run along. 

I'll see you later. See? S'long. 
Jen. You bet I see. And I don't stir 

From this here spot till you go mit, 
Or send this girl sky-high — 
You got your choice. 
Peddler. Now, Jen, you see just how it is — 
I can't go now — I got to scrape the 

dough. 
You run along. Don't be so con- 
trary. 
Jen. Contrary? Mef 

Peddler. Don't be so onery. 
Jen. Me onery? You tell me who she is. 

Peddler. I told you once — she's just a movie 

girl. 
Jen \^to Dryad]. What's your name? 
Dryad. A dryad I, 

Spirit and god of trees. 
I love this man. 

[She says it very simply and with 
a divine smile. Jen gives her a 
look of hatred, yells and makes 
for her. The dryad, rather sur- 
prised, stands still, looking at 
her with wide eyes, but the Ped- 
dler catches Jen and holds her 
hack.] 
Peddler. No, you don't. You leave her be. 
Jen [to Peddler]. Oh, you fool. You let me 

I'll teach her what she is. 
[ To Dryad.] You — you ugly scarecrow, you 1 

236 



THE DRYAD 



Dryad. 
Jen. 



Dryad. 



Jen. 

Dryad. 



Dryad. 



a 



loud 



Don't you see? He is my man, 

He's going to marry me. 

Marry? What is marry? 

I reckon every girl knows that — even 
the movie folks. 

He makes the coin for me, just me 
and no one else. 

We'll rent a room and buy some fur- 
niture. 

He's mine, ^ 

I love the man, 

You love him not, you only love 

What he has done for you. 

You will not let him drink 

Water from flowing springs. 

Water? Him? \_She gives 
laugh.^ 

But I should love him still 

Even if he drank strange vintages 
that drove him mad. 
\^Jen with a sudden jerk escapes 
from the Peddler, and with a yell 
leaps upon the Dryad. The boy 
seizes her and after a sharp 
struggle, pulls her away. The 
dryad, amazed, gazes with her 
wide blue eyes at Jen and shakes 
back her beautiful disheveled 
hair.l 

Thou art a half-tamed mountain cat, 

Thy softness in thy fur alone, thy cul- 
ture in thy vesture. 

I wear it not. 

This man — he is my mate — thou 

237 



MORE SHORT PLAYS 



wouldst take from me, 

Merely to do thee service. 

But I hold him dear. I give myself 
to him 

For that he loves me — not because 
he brings me food — 

And that he'll never do. 
[To the boy.^ Oh, my love. 

Thine eyes are like two blue-white 
iris flowers 

In April, or like two stars, 

Aldebaran and Leda in the month 

When Scorpio trails the treetops of 
the south. 
Peddler [to Jerf\, Git back. [He releases her 
and they both stand in amaze- 
ment staring at the Dryad, 
who glows in the beauty of her 
love.l^ 
Dryad. Thy hair is like the fair foamed roll- 
ing wave 

That tosses lovingly upon 

The opalescent sand at moon-dawn in 
the full. 

Thy neck is strong and soft and warm 
as where 

A lioness would desire to lay her 
young. 

And when thy lips touch mine — ah, 
then, 

'Tis beauty stark and swift as when 
a fire 

Touches a pine cone. 

I am the soul, I am the god of trees, 
238 



THE DRYAD 



I am a part of beauty, of poetry, of 
life, 

I am my share of all the loveliness 

Of all the lovely world. 

Of seas and hills and star-stilled sum- 
mer nights. 

I know all gods and trolls and lepre- 
chauns, 

The fairy folk, the genii, the half- 
gods. 

Apollo, Siegfried, and Angus Og 
have been my lovers. 

Now to this man I bring delight. 

And he has need of me 

As lemon flowers need the joy of 
light. 
[The Peddler has become more 
and more fascinated by her ap- 
pealing beauty and love, has 
stretched out his arms to her and 
now goes to her and takes her 
hands.^ 
Jen. You dog-goned slut, you make a fool 

of him. 
Dryad. I only ask his love. 
Peddler. And that's the whole damned thing. 
Jen. Can you cook and wash for him? 

Dryad. I will bring him purple grapes and 
plums and blackberries, 

And yellow honey gathered by the 
bees 

From April's blossomed locust trees 

And pink May clover fields. 

I will lead him through the woods 

239 



MORE SHORT PLAYS 



Jen. 



Dryad. 
Jen. 



To that still pool where grapevines 

hang 
And he may swing far out and drop 

through soft cool air 
To the cooler water underneath. 
My gawd, she's nutty! {^She catches 
the Peddler by the arm and tries 
to pull him away. Then to the 
Dry ad. ^ 
Say, you ain't no real movie girl? 
A dryad I, a living part 
Of all the living beauty of the world. 
Don't you see? [To the Peddler.^ 
She's nutty, bughouse, crazy as a flea ! 
First thing you know a cop will pull 

her In, 
Then where'U you be? 
I will bring thee hazel nuts, but better 

still ^ 
I will bring thee rainbows and the 

dawn of stars. 
You see she's crazy — she'll maybe 

murder you. 
You ain't safe here — you come 
along with me. 
\_The Peddler s bewilderment and 
final fear grow until he allows 
Jen to pull him away.'\ 
I love thee. 
She'll kill you. 
I'll give thee stars. 
You come along. She ain't for such 
as us. 

240 



Dryad. 



Jen. 



Dryad. 
Jen. 
Dryad. 
Jen. 



THE DRYAD 



Dryad. 



Jen. 



I'll bring thee little fauns to do thy 

bidding. 
She's crazy as can be. They'll lock 

her in a cell. 
Come, hurry up, let's get away from 

here 
Before she gets you hooked and to 
the station-house. 
{^As she speaks she draws the Ped- 
dler away, he looking hack at 
the Dryad. They go down the 
steps and with his cart they 
hurry away. The Dryad is left 
staring wistfully after them. 
She turns back to the tree and 
lays her hand upon it and her 
forehead upon her hand.^ 
Dryad. Old tree, he did not see, he did not 
know, he did not understand. 
He will work for her and think he is 

content. 
But in his dreams he will follow, fol- 
low, follow. 
Hunting the memory of me through 
the world. 
\_Two men appear and the Dryad, 
seeing them, drops back. They 
do not notice her. They go to 
the tree and pick up the axes.~\ 
Man. This is the tree that's got to come 

down. 
Other Man. It's the best one of the bunch. 
Man. That's the way. 

241 



MORE SHORT PLAYS 



They want to put an electric light 
right here. 

A tree's got to make room for some- 
thing practical. 
l^They begin chopping and as they 
go on with their work, the Dryad 
looks frightened, pained, ill. 
Every blow to the tree is a stab 
to her till finally it totters, she 
wavers, too, and when it drops 
to the ground, she falls under 
one of the huge bronze female 
figures of the fountain and there 
she dies. The two men shoul- 
der their axes and walk away. 



[Curtain] 



242 



A SELECTED LIST 

OF 

DRAMATIC 
LITERATURE 





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CINCINNATI 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



The Truth 

About The Theater 

Anonymous 

Precisely what the title indicates — facts as they are, 
plain and unmistakable without veneer of any sort. It 
goes directly to the heart of the whole matter. Behind the 
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recites what he knows, what he has seen, and his quiet, 
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"The Truth About the Theater," in brief, lifts the 
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they may come to some fair estimate of the worth of the 
innumerable theories nowadays advanced, the book will 
again prove its value. 

New York Herald: 

Whether the book is too severe or not, it is refresh- 
ing to read about the stage, not through the customary 
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The author shatters cherished illusions unmerci- 
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Francois de Curel's The Fossils 

Jean Jullien's The Serenade 

Georges de Porto-Riche's 

Francois e' LucJk 

Georges Ancey's The Dupe 

Translated nvith an introduction on Antoine and Theatre 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



Contemporary French Dramatists 

By BARRETT H. CLARK 

In "Contemporary Trench Dramatists'* Mr» Barrett H. 
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"The British and American Drama of Today," translator 
of "Four Plays of the Free Theater," and of various plays 
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be found anywhere. 

This book gives a study of contemporary drama in 
France ivhich has been more neglected than any other 
European country. 

Independent, New York: 

"Almost indispensable to the student of the theater." 

Boston Transcript: 

" Mr. Clark's method of analyzing the works of the 
Playwrights selected is simple and helpful. * * * As 
a manual for reference or story, 'Contemporary French 
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PREFACE BY BARRETT H. CLARK 
A new volume of criticisms of plays and papers on act- 
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and constitute about half of the volume. The remainder 
of the book is given over to various discussions of the 
actor's art, of play construction, of the new stage craft, 
of new movements in our theater, such as the Washington 
Square Players, and several lighter essays in the satiric 
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the dramatic critic of the New York Suti. Unlike most 
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Toronto Saturday Night: 

Mr. Eaton writes well and with dignity and inde- 
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Detroit Free Press: 

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encountered in that period popularly referred to as 
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present. Mr. Eaton succinctly restores the play to 
the memory, revisualizes the actors, and puts the 
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by which to correct our impressions. 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



The Antigone of Sophocles 

By PROF. JOSEPH EDWARD HARRY 



An acting version of this most perfect of all dramas. 
A scholarly ivork in readable English. Especiallly 
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44 



European Dramatists 



By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON 
Author of "George Bernard Shaw: His Life and Works." 

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biographer of Sha<iv has considered six representative 

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Chicago Record Herald: 

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parochial prejudice — a thing deplorably rare among 
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that one agrees with Mr. Henderson's main conten- 
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"Henderson has done his work, within its obvious 
limitations, in an exceedingly competent manner. He 
has the happy faculty of making his biographical 
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a fairly clear and entertaining portrait of the indi- 
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DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



A^ Last 

You May Understand 

Perhaps once in a generation a figure of commanding 
greatness appears, one through whose life the history of 
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George Bernard Shaw 

HIS LIFE AND WORKS 

A CRITICAL BIOGRAPHY (Authorized) 

By 
ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A.Ph.D. 

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A Few Critical Reviews of 

George Bernard Shaw 

His Life and Works 

A Critical Biography (Authorized) 

By ARCHIBALD HENDERSON, M.A., Ph.D. 

The Dial: 

"In over five hundred pages, with an energy and 
carefulness and sympathy which deserve high com- 
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from all conceivable angles." 
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that Dr. Henderson has done a good job." 
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most entertaining biographies of these opening years 
of the Twentieth Century." 
Bernard Shaw: 

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a great one." 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



Short Plays 

By MARY MAC MILLAN 

To fill a long- felt nvant. All have been successfully 
presented. Suitable for Women's Clubs, Girls' Schools, 
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Review of I^eviews: 

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needy. The Old Woman, gone daft, who babbles in 
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a splendid characterization." 
Boston Transcript: 

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must' is a sharp stimulus to high powers. If we find 
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"The Plays are ten In number, all of goodly length. 
We prophesy great things for this gifted dramatist." 
Bookseller, News Dealer & Stationer: 

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snatches of wit, picturesque phraseology, and tender, 
often exquisite, expressions of sentiment." 
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* * * The story of Pandora's box told in verse by a 
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sisted at the opening been responsible for the play." 

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Portmanteau Plays 

BY STUART WALKER 

Edited and with an Introduction by 
EDWARD HALE BIERSTADT 

This volume contains four One Act Plays by the in- 
ventor and director of the Portmanteau Theater. They 
are all included in the regular repertory of the Theater 
and the four contained in this volume comprise in them- 
selves an evening's bill. 

There is also an Introduction by Edward Hale Bier- 
stadt on the Portmanteau Theater in theory and practice. 

The book is illustrated by pictures taken from actual 
presentations of the plays. 

The first play, the " Trimplet,^* deals with the search 
for a certain magic thing called a trimplet which can cure 
all the ills of whoever finds it. The search and the find- 
ing constitute the action of the piece. 

Second play, " Six who Pass White the Lentils 
Boil," is perhaps the most popular in Mr. Walker's 
repertory. The story is of a Queen who, having stepped 
on the ring-toe of the King's great-aunt, is condemned 
to die before the clock strikes twelve. The Six who pass 
the pot in which boil the lentils are on their way to the 
execution. 

Next comes " Nevertheless" which tells of a burglar 
who oddly enough reaches regeneration through two chil- 
dren and a dictionary. 

And last of all is the " Medicines-Show" which is a 
character study situated on the banks of the Mississippi. 
One does not see either the Show or the Mississippi, but 
the characters are so all suflBcient that one does not miss 
the others. 

All of these plays are fanciful — symbolic if you like 
— but all of them have a very distinct raison d'etre in 
themselves, quite apart from any ulterior meaning. 

With Mr. Walker it is always " the story first," and 
herein he is at one with Lord Dunsany and others of his 
ilk. The plays have body, force, and beauty always; and 
if the reader desires to read in anything else surely that 
is his privilege. 

Each play, and even the Theater Itself has a prologue, 
and with the help of these one is enabled to pass from one 
charming tale to the next without a break in the continuity. 
With five full-page illustrations on cameo paper. 

I2mo. Silk cloth $1.50 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



Comedies of Words 
and Other Plays 

BY ARTHUR SCHNITZLER 
TRANSLATED BY PIERRE LOVING 



The contents are 



" The Hour of Recognition " 

" Great Scenes " 

** Tlie Festival of Bacchus " 

" His Helpmate " 

" Literature:* 



In his " Comedies of Words," Arthur Schnitzler, the 
great Austrian Dramatist, has penetrated to newer and 
profounder regions of human psychology. According to 
Schnitzler, the keenly compelling problems of earth are: 
the adjustment of a man to one woman, a woman to one 
man, the children to their parents, the artist to life, the 
individual to his most cherished beliefs, and how can we 
accomplish this adjustment when, try as we please, there 
is a destiny which sweeps our little plans away like help- 
less chessmen from the board? Since the creation of An- 
atol, that delightful toy philosopher, so popular in almost 
every theater of the world, the great Physician-Dramatist 
has pushed on both as World-Dramatist and reconnoiterer 
beyond the misty frontiers of man's conscious existence. 
He has attempted in an artistic way to get beneath what 
Freud calls the ** Psychic Censor " which edits all our 
suppressed desires. Reading Schnitzler is like going to 
school to Life itself ! 

Bound uniform with the S & K Dramatic Series, Net $1.50 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



L 



Lucky Pehr 

By AUGUST STRINDBERG 

Authorized Translation by Velma Swanston Hoivard. 
An allegorical drama in five acts. Compared favorably 
to Barrie's "Peter Pan" and Maeterlinck's "The Blue 
Bird." 

Rochester Post Express: 

Strindberg has written many plays which might be 
described as realistic nightmares. But this remark does 
not apply to "Lucky Pehr." * * * This drama is one 
of the most favorable specimens of Strindberg's 
genius. 

New York World: 

"Pehr" is lucky because, having tested all things, 
he finds that only love and duty are true. 
New York Times: 

"Lucky Pehr" clothes cynicism In real entertain- 
ment instead of in gloom. And it has its surprises. 
Can this be August Strindberg, who ends his drama 
so sweetly on the note of the woman-soul, leading up- 
ward and on? 

Worcester Gazette: 

From a city of Ohio comes this product of Swedish 
fancy in most attractive attire, attesting that the pos- 
sibilities of dramatic art have not entirely ceased In 
this age of vaudeville and moving pictures. A great 
sermon in altruism is preached in these pages, which 
we would that millions might see and hear. To those 
who think or would like to think, "Lucky Pehr" will 
prove a most readable book. * * * An allegory, It Is 
true, but so are ^sop's Fables, the Parables of the 
Scriptures and many others of the most effective les- 
sons ever given. 

Boston Globe: 

A popular drama. * * * There Is no doubt about 
the book being a delightful companion in the library. 
In charm of fancy and grace of imagery the story may 
not be unfairly classed with "The Blue Bird" and 
"Peter Pan." 
Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 

Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Siuanston Hoivard's 

authorization. 

Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.50 



STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 



Easter 



(A Play in Three Acts) 
AND STORIES BY AUGUST STRINDBERG 

Authorized translation by Velma Siuanston Hoivard. 
In this ivork the author re<veals a broad tolerance, a rare 
poetic tenderness augmented by an almost divine under- 
standing of human frailties as marking certain natural 
stages in evolution of the soul. 
Louisville Courier=Journal : 

Here is a major key of cheerfulness and idealism 
— a relief to a reader who has passed through some 
of the author's morbid pages. * * * Some critics find 
in this play (Easter) less of the thrust of a distinctive 
art than is found in the author's more lugubrious 
dramas. There is indeed less sting in it. Neverthe- 
less it has a nobler tone. It m_ore ably fulfills the 
purpose of good drama — the chastening of the spec- 
tators' hearts through their participation in the suf- 
fering of the dramatic personages. There is in the 
play a mystical exaltation, a belief and trust in good 
and its power to embrace all in its beneficence, to bring 
all confusion to harmony. 
The Nation: 

Those who like the variety of symbolism which 
Maeterlinck has often employed — most notably in the 
"Bluebird" — will turn with pleasure to the short stories 
of Strindberg which Mrs. Howard has included in her 
volume. * * * They are one and all diverting on ac- 
count of the author's facility in dealing with fanciful 
details. 
Bookseller: 

"Easter" is a play of six characters illustrative of 
human frailties and the effect of the divine power 
of tolerance and charity. * * * There is a symbolism, 
a poetic quality, a spiritual insight in the author's 
work that make a direct appeal to the cultured. * * * 
The Dial: 

One play from his (Strindberg's) third, or sym- 
bolistic period stands almost alone. This is "Easter." 
There is a sweet, sane, life-giving spirit about it. 
Photogravure frontispiece of Strindberg etched by 
Zorn. Also, a reproduction of Velma Sivanston Howard's 
authorization. 
Handsomely bound. Gilt top Net, $1.50 



DRAMATIC LITERATURE 



On the Seaboard 

By AUGUST STRINDBERG 

The Author's fireatest psychological novel. Author- 
ized Translation by Elizabeth Clarke fVestergren. 

Americati'Scandinavian [Review : 

"The description of Swedish life and Swedish scen- 
ery makes one positively homesick for the Skargard 
and its moods. 

Worcestet^ Evening Gazette: 

"Classes in Psychology in colleges, and Medical stu- 
dents considering Pathology would derive much infor- 
mation from the observations and reflections of the 
commissioner who holds the front of the stage whereon 
are presented sciences as new to the readers of to-day 
as were those which Frederick Bremer unfolded to the 
fathers and mothers of critics and observers in this 
first quarter of the Twentieth Century." 

Detroit Tribune: 

"Hans Land pronounced this novel to be the only 
work of art in the domain of Nietzschean morals yet 
written which is destined to endure." 

Cincinnati Times'Star: 

"It requires a book such as 'On the Seaboard' to 
show just how profound an intellect was housed in the 
frame of this great Swedish writer." 

New Haven Leader: 

"His delineations are photographical exactness with- 
out retouching, and bear always a strong reflection of 
his personality." 

Indianapolis News: 

"The story is wonderfully built and conceived and 
holds the interest tight." 

American l^eview of I^eviews: 

"This version is characterized by the fortunate use 
of idiom, a delicacy in the choice of words, and great 
beauty in the rendering of descriptive passages, the 
translation itself often attaining the melody of poetry 
* * * You may read and re-read it, and every read- 
ing will fascinate the mind from a fresh angle." 

Soutli Atlantic Quarterly: 

"Only a most unusual man, a genius, could have 
written this book, and it is distinctly worth reading." 

Handsomely bound, uniform ivith Lucky Pehr and 
Easter Net, $1.25 



^, ao ^ 



STEWART & KIDD COMPANY 



The Hamlet Problem and Its Solution 

By EMERSON VENABLE 

The tragedy of Hamlet has never been adequately in- 
terpreted. T'wo hundred years of critical discussion has 
not sufficed to reconcile conflicting impressions regarding 
the scope of Shakespeare's design in this, the first of his 
great philosophic tragedies. IVe believe that all those 
students ivho are interested in the study of Shakespeare 
ivill find this volume of great value. 
The Louisville Courier=Journal : 

"Mr. Venable's Hamlet is a 'protagonist of a drama 
of triumphant moral achievement.' He rises through 
the play from an elected agent of vengeance to a 
man gravely impressed with 'an imperative sense of 
moral obligation, tragic in its depth, felt toward the 
world.' " 
E. H. Sothern: 

"Your ideas of Hamlet so entirely agree with my 
own that the book has been a real delight to me. I 
have always had exactly this feeling about the char- 
acter of Hamlet. I think you have wiped away a 
great many cobwebs, and I believe your book will 
prove to be most convincing to many people who may 
yet be a trifle in the dark." 
The Book News Monthly: 

"Mr. Venable is the latest critic to apply himself 
to the 'Hamlet' problem, and he offers a solution in 
an admirably written little book which is sure to at- 
tract readers. Undeterred by the formidable names 
of Goethe and Coleridge, Mr. Venable pronounces un- 
tenable the theories which those great authors pro- 
pounded to account for the extraordinary figure of 
the Prince of Denmark. * * * Mr. Venable looks in 
another direction for the solution of the problem. 
* * * The solution offered by the author is just the 
reverse of that proposed by Goethe. * * * From Mr. 
Venable's viewpoint the key to 'Hamlet' is found in 
the famous soliloquies, and his book is based upon 
a close study of those utterances which bring us with- 
in the portals of the soul of the real Hamlet. The 
reader with an open mind will find in Mr. Venable a 
writer whose breadth of view and searching thought 
gives weight to this competent study of the most inter- 
esting of Shakespearean problems." 
l6mo. Silk cloth Net, $l.oo 



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